


No Quiet Life

by JustGettingBy



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra, Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Epistolary, Firelord Zuko (Avatar), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Interquel, M/M, Politics, Post-Canon, Reflection, Romance, Time Skips, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24731152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustGettingBy/pseuds/JustGettingBy
Summary: Zuko's not sure when it started. It would be easy to say it started with Boiling Rock, or with the Western Air Temple. But whenever it started, his crush isn’t about to go away anytime soon.*“It’s not too late, ‘Lee’. We could steal a boat. Sail across the high seas until we hit the horizon. Spend the rest of our days living off the land.” He brandishes his arm as if to show Zuko the untapped potential of their future as wild hunters.“No, Sokka.”Sokka shrugs. “Well, it was worth a shot. When you’re up to your eyeballs in expense reports, don’t say I didn’t ask.”Zuko’s mouth feels very dry. “I won’t.”
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 191
Kudos: 819





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this fic is supposed to bridge the gap between ATLA and LoK and explore the moments in Sokka and Zuko's relationship over the years (while ignoring the comics). 
> 
> Title comes from the song "A Quiet Life" by Teho Teardo & Blixa Bargeld.

Zuko would like to say it starts on the morning of his coronation, but he knows that’s not the truth. It would be easy to say it started with Boiling Rock, but he knows that’s not the truth either. By the time he reached the Western Air Temple, he already felt that jolt in his lungs whenever Sokka looked his way, even if he didn’t want to acknowledge it yet. In all honesty, it probably started when Zuko ordered his ship to set course towards the blast of light, crashed through the wall of snow, and kicked the rushing wolf-warrior out of his way.

He hadn’t known then what that other man would mean to him one day. Agni, he was so focused on capturing the Avatar that the clumsy warrior hardly registered in his mind as anything more than a brief but easy to dispatch distraction. It wasn’t until later when he was desperately gripping the chain and looking up at those blue eyes that he got a good look at the other teen. And, when he plunged into the frigid Southern waters, the image of the boy with the wolf-tail and sarcastic grin burned into his mind. Zuko thinks it’s probably never left. 

So, no—the morning of his coronation definitely isn’t the start of it. 

It’s the moment of no return. 

Zuko stands on his balcony, clad in his casual robes with his hair down, and takes in Sokka. His wolf-tail’s back now; the sides of his dark hair freshly shaved in. Sokka leans against the railing with his usual ease and folds his injured foot behind his other ankle. “You ready?” 

“No,” Zuko admits. Because he’s not—he’ll never be. “But I don’t exactly have much of a choice.”

“I guess not.” Sokka turns, pulling his gaze away from the edge of the caldera on the horizon and settling on Zuko. 

Zuko’s chest stings and he’s fairly sure it’s not from his lightning scar. 

“You could run away.” A soft ocean breeze whistles between them. “Have you ever thought of being Lee from the tea shop forever?”

“I’ve thought about it.I mean, how couldn’t I? When I was there, with Uncle, I thought about what would happen if I just stayed there forever and never came back.”

“And?”

Zuko sighs. “There is no ‘and’. I never had the option of sitting the war out. Even if I tried, it would’ve caught up to me eventually.”

“Maybe. But there must’ve been part of you that wanted to—I mean, you could have a quiet life. Find a nice girl, settle down, have a little firebender or two.” 

Zuko scoffs for more than one reason. “It never would have lasted. It’d only take one person to recognize me and that would’ve all come crashing down. I mean, it would be bad enough for someone to find me, but I couldn’t drag anyone else into my mess. Especially not kids, who wouldn’t have a choice in it.” Not to mention the thought of having children terrifies Zuko to his bones. 

Sokka taps his chin. “Still.” 

Zuko watches the sun blaze over the city. As it creeps higher and higher, it reminds him he has somewhere to be when it reaches its zenith over the palace. 

Sokka apparently realizes this too. “I better catch up with Katara,” he says. “And I’m sure you probably have attendants waiting to do your hair and wrestle you into ceremonial robes.”

Zuko wrinkles his nose. “Don’t remind me.”

Sokka smirks. He claps Zuko on the shoulder and lets his hand linger. Through the silk of his robe, Zuko feels the warmth of Sokka’s hand radiate down his arm and back. “It’s not too late, Lee. We could steal a boat. Sail across the high seas until we hit the horizon. Until we finally reach the Earth Kingdom. Spend the rest of our days _living off the land_.” He brandishes his arm out, as if to show Zuko the untapped potential of their future as wild hunters. 

“No, Sokka.”

Sokka shrugs. “Well, it was worth a shot. When you’re up to your eyeballs in expense reports, don’t say I didn’t ask.”

Zuko’s mouth feels very dry. He doubts he’ll ever forget Sokka’s suggestion. “I won’t.”

Sokka grins. “But in all seriousness, we’re rooting for you. You can do this.”

“You think so?”

“Of course. And, hey, just think of all the fun we’ll have at the banquet tonight, Hotman.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry— _Fire Lord_ Hotman.”

Zuko groans, but as Sokka takes his crutch and walks out, he finds himself missing his company keenly. 

_It’s not too late, Lee._ He turns Sokka’s words over in his head. Steal a boat. Live off the land. 

Sokka hadn’t meant it in the way Zuko wants him to have meant it. He couldn’t have. 

And in that moment—standing alone on the balcony of the palace, staring out at Caldera City, _his_ city, with the soft breeze washing over his hair—Zuko realizes he is hopelessly and painfully in love with Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe. 

* * *

After the banquet that night, Zuko floats through the reception hall with ease. The energy of the day crests in his head. Between the ceremony, Aang at his side, the crown in his hair, and the glasses of sake he pounded back, Zuko thinks he can do this. There’s a long road ahead of him, but since when has he backed down from a challenge? Ozai only held the throne for seven years—many of his grandfather’s advisors are still around and they tended to take a more moderate approach to measures than Ozai had. Plus, Uncle gave Zuko some names he could trust to support his more...progressive projects. 

For once, things are looking up. And, for the first time in years, Zuko feels light. Like he can breathe. 

Somewhere in the distance, he can hear Aang’s high laugh. It ripples and echoes through the hall. 

Zuko works his way through greeting members of all nations. He nods and bows and listens. Many are hesitant to trust him—he doesn’t need Toph to tell him they’re lying when they say they’re ‘looking forward to working with him’. 

Honestly, Zuko can’t say he blames them. After what the Fire Nation did—after what _his family_ did—he can’t expect them to welcome him with open arms. But, for now, they’re willing to work with Zuko, which is all that matters. With time, he can make them see he believes in a brighter future as much as they do. 

After Zuko shakes hands with an Earth Kingdom dignitary, he turns to find his friends. They’re gathered at the far wall—Aang is showing Katara some trick with air; Toph lounges in a chair, one leg over the other knee, snacking on some sweet looking pastry; and Sokka and Suki are—

Zuko’s face warms. Suki nuzzles her face into the crook of Sokka’s neck and he plants a kiss on the top of her brown hair. 

With a sharp breath, Zuko turns to leave. He slips out the door and wanders down the hallway, listening to the click of his footfall and clatter of his ceremonial armour echo through the corridor. It shouldn’t bother him. He’s seen Sokka and Suki together more times than he can count (they were practically attached at the hip after they got back from Boiling Rock). But he hadn’t expected it tonight. 

_It’s not too late._

Zuko grimaces. It is now. 

At the end of the corridor, the red walls give way to the arch that leads to the gardens. Zuko finds his spot on a bench near the pond. The air here is more fragrant than the finest perfume and has none of the cloying notes. Music from the reception drifts out faintly. The beat rattles along, but Zuko can’t make out any specific notes. Overhead, the stars shine through the inky night. Once, Uncle told Zuko that each star, each ball of light that pricked through the dark, was its own raging ball of fire. Each start was another sun. 

Even now, Zuko finds that hard to believe. How distant must they be for him not to feel the heat? But Zuko is learning every day that the world is stranger than he can fathom. He welcomes the strangeness and the unexplained: all things brilliant and wild and unknowable. 

“Zuko?” Aang stands under the arch. “You’re missing your party.”

“It’s your party too. I doubt anyone besides you noticed me slip away.”

Aang frowns. “Is it your burn? I can ask Katara—”

Zuko sighs. He’s not winning this. “I’m fine. I just need to think.”

“It is loud in there,” Aang agrees. 

They walk back towards the party side by side in silence. 

“Zuko?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s not true, you know. I wasn’t the one who saw you leave.”

Aang wasn’t? He must’ve been too busy staring at Katara—usually, he noticed everything. 

“Sokka asked me to check on you.”

“Oh.” Zuko swallows a lump in his throat. “Oh.” 

* * *

Zuko’s never had a friend his own age in the palace before. In fact, he’s rarely had _anyone_ his age around. From stuffy lectures with ancient tutors, to firebending practice with bristly masters, to a navy ship where the youngest crew had been a good ten years his senior, Zuko didn’t have much experience with peers (aside from Azula and her friend, but he doesn’t suppose that really counts). It wasn’t until he reached Ba Sing Se after those months wandering through the Earth Kingdom that he had people his own age to talk to. For the first time in his life, he had people who spoke to him without expecting anything in return. He struck up an easy camaraderie with the other servers in the lower ring tea shop. He went on a date who wasn’t vying to be Fire Lady. Agni, he even teamed up with Jet before he started throwing around all the accusations that he and Uncle were firebenders. 

But his life in Ba Sing Se was ephemeral. Those easy days weren’t Zuko’s—they belonged to Lee. Zuko didn’t think it was possible for him to have any sort of relationship (romantic or platonic) that could happen on equal footing now. Even if people weren’t trying to get close to him just for his power, he couldn’t deny that being Fire Lord changed things. A lot. 

That was until someone knocks on the door of his study a week after his coronation. 

“Enter.”

The door creaks. “ _Enter._ I like it. Very official sounding.”

Zuko’s hand freezes around the paper he’s reading. “What’s up, Sokka?”

“Aang’s off riding Appa and the girls decided to take a spa day.”

“So?”

“I’m _bored_ , genius.” Sokka flops into a chair. “And I thought you might be too.”

Zuko bites his lip. He is bored. Seriously, who cares about the decline in cabbage sales? “I have duties, Sokka.”

“And they can’t wait for one afternoon?” 

“No,” Zuko says. Because they can’t wait. Not now. As much as he wants them too, he’s still so young and unproven and he can’t afford to risk anything right now, not even misunderstand some information on imports. 

“I got a new sword. It’s begging me to test it out.”

“I’ve got about another eight pages to read.”

“Fine,” Sokka says. Zuko can’t help but note how disappointed he sounds. “You know, if you took the afternoon off to relax, you might’ve had your greatest breakthrough ever and realized the simple five-step-solution to everlasting peace between nations. But, alas, we’ll never know.”

Zuko rolls his eyes. “I think you’re forgetting the alternative, where I take the afternoon off and never finish reading the reports on imports and tariffs. Then, tomorrow, I make a mistake so grave at the council meeting that the world plunges back into a thousand-year war.”

Sokka tsks. “You’re being a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

* * *

Later that night, Sokka knocks on the door to Zuko’s study again. “I’m not giving you a choice this time,” he says. “You need a break.”

Zuko whines and complains as they make their way down to the courtyard. 

After they spar, Zuko does feel better. Not that he’d admit it to Sokka. 

* * *

After a few weeks in the Capital, they travel to Ba Sing Se with Uncle. 

It hurts, more than a little, to know that this is where they part ways. Zuko’s scarcely been apart from Uncle over the past three and a half years—and the times they weren’t together was entirely due to Zuko being a jerk. 

It’s strange too to think of leaving Aang and the others. To leave Sokka. In such a short time, they’d slotted their way into his life completely. 

But as unthinkable as his life will be without them, Zuko feels whole as stands there in the tea shop. Sokka and Katara bicker over his artistic abilities. Toph laughs. Uncle pours tea. Once, a life like this had been unthinkable to Zuko. It still is, in a way. 

As the day fades away in a blanket of orange and pink, the team starts winding down. It’s been a long day of travel; even with their high spirits they’re all exhausted. Zuko clears the pot, Sokka nudges his elbow. “Lee from the tea shop. I told you it wasn’t too late.”

 _If only._ “I’m only here for two weeks. After a few meetings with the King, it’s back to the Fire Nation for me. I’ve got a country to run.”

“I guess someone’s gotta do it.”

“And how about you?”

Sokka shrugs. “I don’t think we have a plan, really. Travel through the Earth Kingdom for a bit. Toph wants to see her parents and see if they can patch some things up. Suki’s invited us to visit Kyoshi Island. Aang wants to start restoring the temples. And, of course, Katara and I want to make our way back down South at some point. It’s been too long.”

Zuko nods. It sounds amazing, he’ll admit. What’s it like to know that kind of freedom? No plan, no rules, just their own wills to lead them forward. “That’s quite the plan.”

“I know.”

Zuko bites his lip. “Would you mind if I wrote to you?”

Sokka’s eyes widen. “Wrote—Zuko. Of course. I was planning on writing to you, anyway.” 

Warmth floods Zuko’s face and he prays to Agni that the blush isn’t noticeable. “Oh. That’s...good. It’s just strange, sometimes, at the palace. There’s a lot of minsters older than dirt who all think they know everything.”

“If you ever need anything, we’re only a letter away. But I’d doubt you’d even need that to find us.”

“What?”

“Cause... you know—” Sokka brushes the back of his neck— “you’re pretty good at tracking down the Avatar.”

Zuko groans and lets his head sink forward. “I thought we’d moved past this.”

“We have, but come on. It was _right there._ ” Sokka slings his arm over Zuko’s shoulder. 

Zuko’s heart stutters. This close, he can smell Sokka’s soap. He’s not sure when it started. He doubts his feelings are going to go away with distance. Agni have mercy—Sokka’s going to be the death of him. 


	2. Chapter 2

And so they write to each other, as the weeks pass by. It starts simply and quietly, as most things do. 

_Dear Sokka,_ Zuko writes, _if I have to listen to one more nobleman whine about how war reparations are unfair, I’m going to put Azula on the throne and let her deal with everything.  
_

* * *

_Dear Zuko,_ Sokka writes back, _I might not be an official advisor, but I’d highly advise against that plan. If you need a break, though, I do know of a certain Melon Lord who might be willing to rule in your stead..._

* * *

_Sokka, as tempting as that is, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. For now. Ask me again in a few months…_

* * *

_Zuko, I fear that our dearest Melon Lord won’t make it through the winter. Like all beautiful things, it will not last. Why must death come? Does knowing that death is on the horizon make its arrival any easier? Or is it simpler to not know, to be surprised by it?_

* * *

_Sokka. It’s fruit. It rots._

* * *

  
And it goes like this, for months. Sokka writes of light snow in the southern Earth Kingdom. The weather in Caldera City pitches a few degrees cooler and the heavy rains come, but it remains temperate as always. Things, in general, crawl along. 

Often, Zuko finds himself staring at the page, unsure what to write next. Sokka’s wit ebbs and flows from his letters; Zuko can hear his voice, clear and high, in all of his words. Zuko fears his words are chocked and dull. The writing of a diplomat, not a poet. 

For now, he sets his barely started letter down. Over the past months, they’ve swapped stories and vented, they’ve shared idle complaints and mild pleasantries. Sokka’s included the details of their journeys through the Earth Kingdom. Zuko’s written briefly about his new role as the Fire Lord, about how he’s trying to untangle the colonies from the Fire Nation after a hundred years of imperialism. 

He hasn’t dared dip into real emotional territory. He hasn’t dared tell Sokka about how he really feels. How sometimes he misses him so much that his ribs ache, or how he rarely sleeps and when he does he dreams of electricity tangled around his nerves. 

Instead, he tells Sokka of the way his advisors fought for a whole afternoon over the colour of his new ceremonial robes. Sokka writes back with stories of new animals Aang’s tried to play with and slips in a joke or two. 

Zuko holds the letters carefully each time they arrive. He waits until night to read them, and when he does he reads them with only his faint flame. Sokka’s print is something awful, but Zuko is all the more grateful for that. It means the letters take him longer to read; he studies every word. 

* * *

Over the first months as Fire Lord, Zuko became accustomed to danger. Constant threats were levelled at him; Ozai’s supporters made themselves well known. More than once, a guard fought off a straggler aiming to take Zuko out with an arrow. His food was always tested before it was sent his way (a practice Zuko detested, even if the court physician assured him they had all possible antidotes in stock where something to ever happen) 

The threats are constant but distant. When he rides through the streets in his palanquin—which his advisors warned him against disposing of—he hears the insults that should be whispered. They call him a child-king. A traitor to both his nation and blood. In the time of his father and grandfathers, such things would never be said out loud. If they were, they’d be met with swift justice for their treachery. 

Zuko could never be that way. He takes the insults; he pretends he doesn’t hear them. The last thing he needs is for his people to fear him more than they already do—he’s seen the way the staff are still skittish around him. He’ll give them no more reasons to fear him. 

And, after a while, he learns to live with the distant threat of danger. It hovers at the palace gates and the edges of his mind. But he refuses to let it consume him. There’s still so much that needs to be done that he can’t afford to lay awake in fear. 

* * *

The danger reaches his door in early spring: the cherry trees are blooming; the palace holds in the pleasant scent of flowers and sea breeze; and a man tries to slit Zuko’s throat in his sleep. 

He doesn’t, thank Agni, but there’s a nick on Zuko’s neck where the blade pressed in and a thin red line that trickles down his throat and pools at his collar bone. 

By the time the guards rush in, the man’s prone on the floor, unconscious. Zuko’s heart throttles his breathing. His hands shake. Something cool and dense weighs in his stomach and his legs don’t feel strong enough to hold him up. “Take him away,” he orders, trying to command the guard with the unshakable constitution a Fire Lord should have. But Zuko’s voice trembles all the same. 

He can’t sleep even after the man’s long gone and the healer has bandaged the cut on his neck. Instead, he wanders through the hallways, hands clasped behind his back. The guards were trying to work out the man’s motive—was he a supporter of Ozai? Did he simply seek chaos? Was he rebelling against monarchy altogether? There were so many possibilities—so many reasons for the nation to hate Zuko. 

And now Zuko’s refuge is gone. His room, at least, had always felt safe. The danger and fear and hate that swirled outside the palace couldn’t touch him there. But now? 

Zuko sighs and watches the dark sky. Unlike in the day, where he sees the birds dance and the clouds drift, there is not movement in the moonless sky. The stars flicker lightly, but that is all. 

Soon, the sun will rise. Soon, Zuko will be expected to return to his duties as if nothing had happened. He can’t put everything on hold; there’s still so much that he needs to do. Ex-soldiers need new jobs. Factories that once produced weapons now sit empty and their owners are restless. 

It’s all too much. 

Zuko’s tired. His eyes ache with strain from overuse. His head feels as if someone filled it with rocks. He misses Uncle and his wise advice. He misses Aang and his infectious laughter and smile. He misses Katara’s bursting hope and Toph’s rugged determination and Suki’s grit. 

But he misses Sokka in a way he doesn’t miss the others. It’s as if a part of himself has been pulled away and he aches with tension while he waits for it to snap back. 

First lines of colour fleck the sky. Zuko should try and get some sleep. At least, he should meditate. 

Zuko does none of this. 

He turns on his heel and makes his way to his study. With care, he lights the oil lamp, and pulls out a fresh sheet of paper. 

_Dear Sokka,_ he writes, _I am still trying to work out what to do with the colonies. As much as I wish to give them back to the Earth Kingdom, I fear for what will happen to those of Fire Nation heritage…_

He writes of the issues he’s trying to sort through, even though he’s written to Sokka about them before. He tells him of the way the cherry trees are blossoming and the newest blend of tea Uncle sent him. Zuko doesn’t mention that he was nearly killed hours before. He doesn’t say there’s a bandage around his throat and a nick on his skin that could’ve slit his artery if it had been a little deeper or a little bit to the left. If he’s been slower by seconds, he wouldn’t be writing this letter. 

_Anyway,_ Zuko ends with, _I’ve been thinking that the nation has gone too long without festivals. I’m hoping to hold one to mark the start of summer. I hope you and the others will come._

Zuko seals the letter with wax and his sigil and sends it before the sun has fully risen. Last time he heard from Sokka, he was back in the Southern Water Tribe. It’ll be weeks before he gets a reply. 

And still he waits, eager, the very next day. Maybe, by some miracle, Sokka will have already replied. 

* * *

_Hey Zuko,_ Sokka writes back, _I wish I could come—I really do—but the South needs me right now. There’s so much we need to rebuild and Dad’s let me (!!) help out with creating the plans. I’ve got this great idea that will pump hot water into the buildings…_

Zuko’s eyes graze through the rest of the letter. Sokka never said no. Not outright. Instead, he works his answer into his duties, hides it in the mountains of work they need to do to rebuild the tribe (which, Zuko reminds himself with a cringe, is only because of the Fire Nation’s constant raids). Still, Sokka’s answer doesn't throw him into complete despair. If Sokka wrote it—if he actually said _no, I’m not coming_ —Zuko knows his heart would crack. It shouldn’t make a difference. Sokka’s not coming, no matter how he words it, but it makes all the difference in the world. 

_I’ve passed on the invitation to Aang and Katara, who say they’d love to come (their letter should be following mine). Toph says she’ll come, but she wants me to add she’s only coming so she can get away from the cold and not for any other reason at all._

Dully, Zuko realizes he doesn’t mention Suki. She’s staying with him in the South, Zuko guesses. It seems that Sokka assumes Zuko will know this. 

_(Also, Zuko, it’s not my place to say, but are you really sure this whole ‘Fire Festival’ will work out? It seems like a short time to plan an event that wild. Anyway, I hope it goes according to plan.)_

Zuko skims on. Sokka has a way with words and stories. Some of it is a Water Tribe thing. Zuko remembers fondly listening to Hakoda’s animated face as he told the group of them old myths in front of the fire at the Western Air Temple. Most of it, though, is a Sokka thing. Zuko hangs on his every word, never wanting the letter to end. 

_Also, about the colonies, I think you might be coming at this the wrong way. You want to bring the world back to ‘normal’, but the ‘normal’ world before the war is the very world that created the conditions for the war. I know, I know—you’re probably thinking ‘but Sozin, blah blah blah. Here’s the thing: Sozin might’ve started the war, but the rest of the nation and all his advisors followed without question. He tipped the balance, sure, but the world shouldn’t have ever been in a place where one person could tip it out of balance. If any of us want a better world, we have to be open to new possibilities._

_Sokka_

_P,S. There’s always another option, Lee…_

Zuko’s breath catches. The words pull the strings of his memory. 

Sokka hadn’t forgotten either. 

* * *

The months pass in a blur of work and stress and before Zuko knows it, the air boils with heat and stifling humidity. 

They manage to plan a festival for the summer solstice. True to Sokka’s advice, there’s not enough time to plan something truly spectacular, but there’s still fire dancers in the streets and colourful paper lanterns hanging from awning and a smattering of vendors from across the Fire Nation with foods that smell of deep, hot spices and pastries as fluffy as summer clouds. 

Aang, Katara, and Toph arrive the day before the celebrations. They all settle into the guest rooms with ease—Zuko arranged to set them up in the same apartments they had stayed in after his coronation. It seems beyond strange that he’s been the Fire Lord for nearly a year now. He’s done so much work and for what? Some days Zuko feels he barely has anything to show for it. 

But as the moon rises on the night of the solstice, Zuko feels the tension in his shoulder ease. Pride swells deep in his chest when he watches the fire dancers wind their way through the streets of Caldera City toward the square in the centre of the town. They move like flames—crackling and leaping and willowing with the breeze. Part of their enchantment is their dress: the women’s dresses are long and flowing, gilded and bejewelled to catch every beam of lantern light; the men are clad in clothing as black as kohl but lined with deep reds. 

Around them, the music plays and swells over the crowd in the square. Around them, people cheer and hoot and urge them to keep the dance going. 

When Zuko was young, his mother told him stories of a time when festivals like this would happen regularly in the Fire Nation. He hadn’t believed her. Not fully. How could the Fire Nation ever be a place of not only sweeping beauty but also unbridled joy? No one here tonight holds back in the ways that they did during the war. 

Zuko watches over the square, quiet and proud. Uncle sits next to him, nodding along with a smile. And, Agni, Zuko misses him most in moments like this. He’s learned to hold his own in court, but he never would’ve gotten through tonight if Uncle hadn’t made his way here from Ba Sing Se. He’s here for the better part of the next two weeks, but Zuko fears that it isn’t long enough. 

When the dancers finish their final movements they bow and signal for the rest of the crowd to join in. At first, the onlookers stay as such—pressed up against the far buildings, looking in, afraid to join. 

Until Aang (and of course, it’s Aang) comes running in, one hand dragging Katara and the other yanking in Toph. He taps his feet along to the horn and twirls Katara around in his arm. Even Toph reluctantly bounces with the beat. 

The shift in the crowd is palpable. A few brave children make their way in first—throwing themselves around with the carelessness only those who haven’t learned to be aware of themselves possess. In their wake follows the restless teens, looking for a thrill, and a few adults (probably bold with drink). 

And, with that, the floodgates open. The crowd pours into the square, dancing (poorly) and singing (out of tune) and living (well). The night is warm and muggy and the din of the lamplight swallows all but the brightest stars. 

Next to him, Uncle clears his throat. “Perhaps you should join in, Fire Lord Zuko.” 

Zuko pauses for a moment, deciding on his words. “Perhaps later, Uncle. I wouldn’t want to upset the crowd.”

“Or perhaps you haven’t found the right partner.”

“Uncle.” Zuko’s face warms. How is it that Uncle can see right through him, can know his thoughts?

Uncle only laughs, warm and round. “You’re young, Fire Lord Zuko. You have time to find the right partner.” He rests his hands on his stomach—still trim, but rounding out—and his eyes glint as he smiles at the crowd. “But for tonight you shouldn’t worry about finding the perfect partner. You should enjoy the music, Nephew.” 

Before Zuko can protest, a little hand wraps itself around his and hauls him to his feet. “Come on, Sparky. If I’m not allowed to sit this one out then neither are you.” 

“Toph.” Zuko lets himself be dragged forward; he can’t say no to her. 

“I’m leading,” she says. She’s taller than the last time they were together, but then again Zuko is too. As always, she’s barefoot, with wild hair and a wilder grin. 

“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

They careen through the crowd, Toph laughing and Zuko trying to rein her in before they knock over a row of lanterns. 

Uncle was right, Zuko thinks dully from the thick of the crowd. It feels good to dance, to be among his people instead of sitting over them. Aang too dances through the group. This time last year, Zuko would’ve sworn this was impossible. The Avatar, in the eyes of the Fire Nation, was supposed to be an old coward at best and a dangerous enemy to the nation at worst. 

Now, he’s barely a teenager and he’s showing a group of children how to dip their partners. How did so much change in so little time? In Zuko’s mind, his view of the past few years is warped. Time before his banishment feels unreal: a life stolen from a dream. The first few weeks he spent on his ship, searching for the Avatar were the longest weeks of his life. After that, the next three years blend together, until he spots the blue beam carving the Southern sky in two. 

Until he orders them to lower the ramp and kicks aside the painted-warrior with ease. Until the other teen gets up, impossibly, and manages to ring Zuko’s helmet (and therefore his skull) with a bone-carved boomerang. 

And tonight, as Zuko looks at the dancing crowd celebrating the shortest night of the year, he finds himself searching for the face he knows isn’t here. The face that’s a thousand miles away, down at the end of the world, where the sun scarcely rises. 

Zuko wonders if he’s looking at the same stars too. 

* * *

He sees Aang and the others at breakfast the next morning. For the first time since Zuko’s known him, Aang’s frowning and grumpy and irritable for now reason. Aang rests his head on his arm and pushes his rice around with his chopstick. 

“Did someone discover sake last night?” Toph teases from across the table. 

Zuko nearly chokes on his tea. Aang’s a monk, for Agni’s sake. But, then again, he’s also a teenage boy. 

“I’m fine,” Aang grumbles. 

“You know I can tell when you’re lying.” Toph points her chopstick at Aang (or rather, she tries to, but ends up directing her point a few feet to his left). 

Zuko raises his hands. “We could debate whether or not Aang got into the sake last night,” he says. “Or I could discuss my plans for the colonies with you.”

Toph mutters ‘I don’t see why we can’t do both’ under her breath and Katara digs her elbow into her ribs.

“That sounds wonderful, Zuko,” Katara says, her words honeyed as if to make up for the two others’ bitter attitudes. 

Zuko takes a breath. He’s swapped a few letters with Sokka about this. He’s discussed it with Uncle. But, for the first time, he’s really proposing it. 

“I don’t think the colonies should go back to the Earth Kingdom.”

That gets Aang’s attention. His chin snaps up; his eyes darken. “Zuko,” he warns. 

“I don’t intend on keeping them either,” Zuko backtracks. Perhaps he should have led with that. “Instead, I want to create something new. A place where people of all nations can live in unity, under a council they choose freely.” 

“Is that possible?” asks Katara, her eyes wide.

“I don’t know,” Aang says quietly. “But I know that’s it’s worth a try.”

* * *

They decide to call it Republic City. It’s an old colony—the Fire Nation has deep roots in the city and King Kuei agrees that the path to peace is not so simple as to reclaim the land. For too long, the nations have stuck with their own people and feared outsiders. They need to imagine a new way forward. 

And the glimmer of hope starts as a small city, on a bay, under the mountains. In many ways, it’s an advantageous fort—clear trade baths, plenty of diverse resources, and natural defense in the craggy peaks. 

Zuko tries not to think of it that way. He tries to imagine that war will one day be no more than a story—a warning of what may come to pass if greed and fear win in the minds of the people. 

Republic City is a glimmering ray of hope, even in its infancy. The families of mixed Earth and Firebenders no longer fear being forced out; refugees throughout the kingdom who lost homes see it as a place to begin their lives again. Business owners take note, too. Old factories in the Fire Nation that once made warships are being started up again to produce steel beams for the new city towers. Hope, Zuko supposes, is infectious. For so long, people have prayed for a better future, and here is a chance. 

He writes to Sokka, telling him as much. 

Sokka writes back and tells him he’s starting to sound like Katara. 

Zuko chuckles and holds the letter in his hand. The print is neater, now. The more precise script of someone who’s spent hours writing business reports and diplomatic letters. 

Sokka’s been as much involved in the founding of the city as him and Aang. Both the Fire Nation and the Earth Kingdom see him as a neutral party, of sorts, and his ideas alone are enough to hold off any questions of his right to be on the council. 

But as much as they write to each other, Zuko still hasn’t seen Sokka since the day he left Ba Sing Se. It’s been much too long, they both know it, even if they’ve both been busy. 

Over the past two years, they’ve come close to each other twice. Once, Zuko arrived in Republic City for a week of meetings. His journey was delayed a few days by rough waters. Sokka had left before Zuko’s boat docked on the shore. 

Sokka almost made it back to the Fire Nation, once. He was set to sail over after his time in Republic City when word of his Gram-Gram was ill pulled him back South. 

_Take as much time as you need,_ Zuko wrote to him, _the Fire Nation and Republic City can wait._ Zuko didn’t write: _but I can’t._

Even now, two years after Sokka made his offer, Zuko can’t forget it. _It’s not too late._

But it is now, isn’t it?

* * *

The tone in Sokka’s letters shift. 

_It’s cold, down here,_ he writes, _and dark all the time. Sometimes I think I must’ve dreamed how bright the sun is in Caldera City._

Sokka’s usual wit is gone; he does dip into long, elaborate stories.

 _Sokka,_ Zuko writes back, his hand hesitant, _I can’t wait for the day you’re here again. I can show you how bright and warm the sun is. You didn’t imagine it. I promise._

He sends the letter before he can doubt his words. 

* * *

_Gram-Gram passed yesterday._

_I’m okay, I think. Just tired._

Zuko doesn’t know what to say back. How can he say anything? Sokka and Katara were practically raised by their grandmother. They’ve already lost so much. 

Zuko dips his brush in the ink and tries to find the words. How could anything he says comfort Sokka? 

Still, Zuko tries. 

* * *

They swap letters, over the months. Sokka’s are short and empty. He talks about rebuilding without his usual enthusiasm. He glosses over Republic City. 

Zuko pours himself into his words to make up for it. 

_Sometimes I worry I’m not doing enough_ , he confesses. _It’s strange here. In some ways, I thought our gang from the Western Air Temple would stick together forever. Maybe that was stupid, but I don’t care. I miss the way we’d all swap stories around the campfire._

Zuko can’t bring himself to write: _I miss you._

* * *

The week before Zuko’s twentieth birthday, he gets an invitation to his own party. It’s folded inside a letter from Uncle. 

_Dearest Nephew,_

_Since you did not seem to be planning any celebrations, I thought I would take the issue out of your hands. You can thank me later! I’ve extended the invitation to your friends, of course (and they say they can’t wait to come!) as well as some dignitaries from the Northern Water Tribe and Earth Kingdom (we can’t have them think we’re playing favourites!) but you are certainly more than welcome to invite anyone else if you wish…_

Zuko groans as he reads the letter. How did Uncle manage to conspire with the palace staff when he’s half a world away? It’s true that twenty would mark his official crossing from childhood to adulthood (by Fire Nation standards, anyway) but he hoped to have a small celebration only. Zuko hardly needs pomp and circumstance when the nation’s economy is still shakily recovering, even almost three years after the war. 

But Zuko also knows when he’s been truly beat. If Uncle’s already planned this, there’s no turning back. He can’t exactly uninvite visiting dignitaries.

And he does miss his friends. 

With a cool jolt, Zuko realizes that his friends have already agreed to come. Uncle didn’t specify who that included—but it must be Aang and Toph and Katara, at least. He bites his lip. Would it include Sokka too? As far as Zuko knows, he hasn’t left the South in months. Maybe this will be the grand occasion. 

* * *

A few days later, Zuko goes to the docks to welcome the envoy from the Earth Kingdom. It’s much larger than expected, and he silently groans—just what had Uncle planned? 

But Zuko’s careful not to let his annoyance show. He nods as a way of welcome and exchanges all the usual pleasantries before turning back to his palanquin (which he’s finally convinced his council is only necessary for the most formal occasions) and leaves them to unpack their things. 

As he enters and pulls back the veil, a shout, deep and low, sounds from the crowd of Earth Kingdom men: “Hey, flamebrain!” 

Zuko grits his teeth and ignores it. The insults from his own people have died down to almost nothing; he’s not keen to have them start again.

* * *

That night, Zuko’s in his study, reviewing a report on exports from Crescent Island, when a guard burst in, gasping for breath. 

“My Lord,” he says between pants. 

Zuko stiffens. “What is it, Ho-Jin?” The guard is new, he’s been on staff for a year at most. 

Ho-Jin swallows. “They caught a man trying to break into your room.”

Zuko pales; thick nausea rises in his throat. He’s three years in the past, suddenly, waking up to a man pressing the blade much too close to his pulse point. 

“He says he came with the Earth Kingdom envoy.”

And, like that, the situation is even worse. This isn’t just a matter of Zuko’s safety—this is shaping into an international incident. 

“Where’s the intruder now?”

“Jail, My Lord. Under heavy guard.”

“Good.” Zuko nods. “What has he said?” 

“He hasn’t spoken, My Lord. Just claims it’s a misunderstanding. At this time we aren’t sure if it’s a matter of espionage or…” Ho-Jin doesn’t need to finish his sentence for Zuko to understand his meeting. 

Zuko taps his chin with his finger. “If he doesn’t want to talk, we’ll stop asking for now. Let him stew, overnight. Perhaps after some time alone with his thoughts, he’ll change his tune.”

Ho-Jin nods and leaves to deliver Zuko’s orders. 

Zuko leans back in his chair and swallows the bile in his mouth. Agni, he needs help with this all, but Uncle isn’t here until the end of the week. 

The ship from the Southern Water Tribe is set to arrive tomorrow, though. And it can’t come soon enough. 

* * *

The ship from the south is a simple thing, unlike the one from the Earth Kingdom in every way. Zuko even walked down the docks to greet it—he didn’t need a palanquin for such a simple affair.

When the ship creeps next to the docks, three figures jump down before it’s even tied off. 

Katara, Aang, and Toph pull him all into a hug. 

“Sparky! I’m so glad you freed me from that icy hellhole.”

“You can leave anytime you want,” Katara grumbles, but she doesn’t sound serious. 

“We’re so glad to see you,” Aang says. “And for a party!”

Zuko chuckles warmly and takes in his friends. They’re attached at the hip, still, even as they age. 

Behind them, Zuko sees Hakoda tie off the ship. A few more of tribesmen and women climb out—maybe half a dozen, in total. 

But Sokka isn’t among them. 

“Where’s your brother?” he asks Katara, trying to sound casual. 

Katara raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean? He’s supposed to be here already.”

“What?” Zuko’s throat feels dry. 

“He said he had a few things to do in the Earth Kingdom first. Didn’t he arrive with them yesterday?”

“No—“ Zuko‘s eyes widen. It couldn’t be… but if it were anyone to get themselves in that situation, it would be Sokka. “Agni, there’s something I need to check.”

* * *

When the guard opens the cell door, Zuko’s not sure what he’s hoping to see. He doesn’t want Sokka to be missing, but well—

“You _locked me up!”_

Zuko cringes and pries open an eye. 

Sokka’s sitting on the floor in prison rags, a line creased between his eyebrows. It drags Zuko’s mind back to when he used to visit Uncle in here and he’d rather not think of that. 

“Sokka,” he says, breathless. “Agni, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He calls for the guards to free him. 

They pull back the gate and unlock the cuffs. Sokka stands, wiping his hands on the rough fabric of his robes. 

When Sokka pulls himself fully upright, Zuko sees why he didn’t recognize him in the crowd yesterday. Sokka’s taller, now. He must be the same height as his father. Through his shoulders, he’s broadened and his muscles aren’t the ropey strength of a kid but are instead the thick sinew of a warrior.

“Your hair’s long,” Sokka says (and _Agni_ even his voice is deeper). 

Numbly, Zuko reaches for the ends of his hair. It’s to his shoulders, now, and he only keeps the top half in the knot. 

“You still have the wolf-tail.” Zuko cringes at his own words. “It, uh, looks good.” 

For so long, Zuko imagined reuniting with Sokka again. He’d turned it over in his head fifty, one hundred different ways. Somehow his fantasies never included this iteration. 

“Thanks.” Sokka looks at the ground. 

They’d been apart longer than they’d been together. Zuko had only been with them two months before the comet and maybe a month after. Three months compared to three years apart. 

“You know, I thought you’d gone mad when the guards hauled me off.”

At that, Zuko blanches. “You didn’t tell me you were coming! You tried to break into the Fire Lord’s room, for Agni’s sake. There are _protocols_ —it’s not like I personally locked you up.”

“In another lifetime, you could’ve forgotten about me in here.” The corners of Sokka’s lips pull up and, with a jolt, Zuko realizes he’s teasing him. 

_Even in jest, I would never forget you._ Zuko pulls himself up straight. Even though Sokka seems impossibly tall, Zuko realizes Sokka’s only got an inch or two on him. 

“Well,” Zuko says, trying to volley back the joke, “in another lifetime you might’ve been a cunning assassin, sent to dispose of me and the family line.” 

Sokka smirks and his smile pushes a flood of warmth through Zuko’s veins. Before he can speak, Sokka’s pulling him in close. 

“I missed you,” he says. “It’s been too long.”

“It has.” Zuko’s hands linger a moment too long—but so do Sokka’s. 

When he pulls away, Zuko aches with the absence of Sokka’s warmth. “It shouldn’t ever be that long again.”

“It won’t,” Sokka says. His voice is so soft it might be a dream, a trick of the wind. But his eyes burn with his promise. 

_He’s real_ , Zuko reminds himself. _He’s real and he’s here and it’s never going to be that long again._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So anyway idk how long this story is gonna be but apparently it’s way longer than I thought lol

Zuko apologizes to Sokka no less than two dozen times over the following days. He doesn’t always say ‘I’m sorry’ (though he does sometimes). Instead, he asks Sokka if he was treated well. He asks if he got enough food and water, he asks if the raw patch on his wrist where the cuff chaffed needs ointment, he asks if the guest suite is to his liking. 

“I’m fine,” Sokka always says. “Really.” But his cheeks always flush red. 

Zuko suspects Sokka might’ve been more vocal—might’ve teased him about the whole thing—if it wasn’t for Katara. 

They were at dinner that night, after Zuko pulled Sokka out of the prison, and after he’d gotten over the initial painful telling of the story of Sokka’s whereabouts. 

(Hakoda remained tight-lipped through Zuko’s whole explanation. His features were so much like Sokka’s it was unnerving—the same warm skin and the same twist of the nose defined the two men. But, in the end, Zuko did have to thank Agni for small mercies. When Sokka retold the story to his family, he did it with much more cheer and animation than Zuko could ever muster. At that point, Hakoda’s features softened and he clapped Sokka on the shoulder.)

But as dessert was coming after the dinner that night, Sokka asked for a second helping. “I spent a whole day in prison,” he said. “ _Wrongly_ imprisoned. The least I could get is another sweet cake.”

“And whose fault is it that you were in prison,” Katara snapped. Her face drew tight as she shot Sokka a look. “How could you seriously thinking that breaking into his room would be a good idea?”

Sokka brushed his neck. “I thought it would be funny.”

“Right. Another assassin in his room would be really hilarious.”

“Wait,” Sokka said, “another?” He turned to Zuko, his eyes wide and deep and wrought with concern. 

Zuko cleared his throat. “Would anyone like tea? Uncle might not be arriving until tomorrow but the kitchen staff can brew an excellent cup.”

“Zuko,” Sokka whispered, his voice humming with concern. 

But Zuko turned to Aang and Toph instead, who had both launched into a conversation about how excited they were to see Iroh.

And with that, it was dropped. Zuko wouldn’t bring it up again. Even thinking about the incident made his heart freeze for a moment too long, made him feel weak in the limbs and helpless. And helpless was the last thing Zuko wanted to be. 

* * *

The days leading up to the party pass without incident (if he doesn’t count Toph nearly uprooting a three-hundred-year-old apricot tree). 

Uncle arrives from Ba Sing Se. Zuko bristles about the party and Uncle only laughs, that round-belly sound, and tells him to enjoy it while he’s young. 

Aang and Katara are sickeningly sweet in love. There’s not a moment where their hands aren’t joined together, whether they’re strolling through the halls of the palace or sitting for tea. 

And Sokka… he’s not himself, as far as Zuko can tell. He smiles and quips when the rest of the gang is around, but he makes himself scarce more often than not. Zuko catches him wandering off to all the quiet places around the palace, all the far corners and empty rooms that no one would accidentally walk into. 

“I’m sorry about your Grandmother,” Zuko tells him after breakfast one morning. He can’t quite find the words to say what he means. Zuko knows Sokka and Katara were raised by their grandmother and yet the only time he met her, he manhandled her, threw a wave of fire at the rest of the villagers, and demanded the Avatar. 

Sokka nods solemnly. “Thanks. She was… at peace, I think. With the world and everything. I mean, all she ever wanted for us was to be safe. And she got to see the end of the war and the start of this new era.” Sokka’s head hangs slightly. “You know, I think Katara gets all her stubbornness from Gram-Gram. She wouldn’t have passed if she thought we wouldn’t be okay without her.”

Zuko nods, though he doesn’t understand. His own grandfather terrified him. When he’d passed, Zuko had bigger things to worry about.

* * *

When the party arrives, Zuko admits Uncle might’ve been right. 

It feels good to relax a little, to let the drinks flow and the music swell over him. Warm light from paper lanterns washes the hall and makes the black stone floor glow. Laughter floats through the reception hall and a light breeze drifts in through the wide windows along the far wall and, for a moment, Zuko can’t imagine that he’s actually living in a world like this. Once, not long ago, a night like this would have been no more than a fever dream. How could he imagine he’d take the throne at seventeen? When he left the Fire Nation at thirteen, a part of his brain knew it would be the last time he’d see it, even if he refused to acknowledge it at the time. Ozai had never intended for Zuko to return. 

And in spite of everything that had happened to Zuko personally, he never could have dreamed the war was so close to being over in the years of his banishment. At the time, he supposes he hadn’t thought of it as a war. He supposes that no nation ever dreams themselves the warmongers. As a child, he believed so fervently in the superiority of the Fire Nation that he thought their actions were just. 

But now, as he looks over the part, he can’t imagine living in a world so small, so single-minded. In the centre of the hall, Aang swings Katara around in a dance that was nearly lost to time because of Zuko’s ancestors’ belief in their superiority. But they were wrong—so wrong. Zuko sees it more and more each day. How could anyone see Toph laughing swapping bawdy stories with a Water Tribe warrior and think these people would be better as serious and joyless colonials? Or see the way the water flows and air glides when Aang and Katara practise their bending in the gardens and decide that neither of them should exist? 

It makes Zuko’s gut twist and his mind ache. He takes another drink and tries to push his more serious thoughts down; it’s his party, after all. He should dance. Even if it’s only with Toph and all she does is crush his toes under her heavy feet. 

But as Zuko’s eyes sweep over the crowd, he notices there’s one face missing from it all. 

When Katara parts from her dance with Aang, Zuko taps her on the shoulder. “Have you seen your brother?”

Katara shrugs. “I’m not his babysitter,” she says with a light giggle (it seems like Aang’s not going to be the one nursing a hangover the size of the Caldera this time). “He’s probably just gone for some ‘air’.” She drags out the last word and Zuko’s chest tightens as his head floods with the image of Sokka dragging some girl with red-painted lips into the hallway, of him pulling her close and—

Zuko swallows. “I think I need some air too,” he mumbles and makes his way out of the hum of the party. 

It’s not that he didn’t like it, or that he didn’t appreciate what Uncle planned. But he needs a moment to think and to clear his head and to sort out all the knotted feelings in his chest and stomach and throat. 

When he makes it to the garden, he frowns. Underneath the cherry tree next to the pond, there’s a silhouetted figure sitting in the grass. Slowly, Zuko steps forward. 

In the din of the far off lanterns, the face comes into focus: its Sokka, sitting with his knees pulled into his chest, idly plucking grass while he stares at the night sky. 

The moon, Zuko thinks, must have blessed his skin. It shines with warmth, as if someone has taken care to polish every inch of it. 

Zuko feels his face heat through his neck and prays its dark enough out here to hide any colour in his face. “Hey,” Zuko says, “this is my brooding place.”

Sokka turns to Zuko, but his eyes are still glassy and distant. “Oh, sorry,” he says and stands, “I’ll go somewhere else.”

In that moment, Zuko realizes that Sokka’s distance, his quiet disposition over the last few days can’t be attributed to some sort of newfound maturity. Sokka isn’t himself anymore. “Sokka,” he says quietly. “I was only kidding.” Zuko can’t bring himself to make a joke. It doesn’t feel right. 

“Oh.” Sokka stands in the garden and stares at him, his arms slack by his sides. 

“Have you been… alright?” Zuko’s never been good at this. He’s never had to be good at this—there’s never been anyone he had to coax out of their shell like a shy turtleduck. Feelings were always Uncle’s territory; Zuko stuck to firebending and swords. 

“I’m tired,” Sokka whispers. “It’s been busy, back at home. There’s always something new to deal with.”

“Don’t I know it,” Zuko says. He sits in the grass at Sokka’s feet, his grand robes bunching up and pooling uncomfortably at his neck. “I never thought peace would take so much work.”

“Yeah.” Sokka drops down next to Zuko. 

Neither of them dares to look at the other; they both keep their eyes fixed on the clear surface of the pond. It’s calmness holds the stars and sky and all things that Zuko wishes he could say. 

“Are things okay, back home?” Zuko tries again. He hadn’t known Sokka for long, not in person, but he never ran out of things to say in his letters. 

“I guess.” Sokka sighs and flops back onto the grass. He laces his hands behind his head and keeps his eyes on the sky. “It’s just—have you—ugh. This is gonna sound so stuck up.”

“Sokka. I grew up in a _palace._ Everything I’ve ever said probably sounded stuck up.”

Sokka chews his lip and Zuko can’t stop his eyes from lingering on the way his lip folds and skin dimples. “Do you find it hard to talk to people?”

“Sometimes.”

“I don’t just mean chit chat. I mean: do you find it hard to talk to people, to really get on with them?”

“Is that a joke?” Zuko frowns. Sokka wouldn’t purposely be cruel, but Agni, he has to know Zuko has never in his life found it easy to open to anyone. Even with Sokka—as much as Zuko wishes to open his mouth and let his ramblings spill out—he still reigns it in. 

“Do you think I’m joking right now?” The line between Sokka’s brow deepens. 

“Then why ask it? You know my answer. You don’t have to be mean.”

“Mean? I’m not being _mean,_ Zuko.” He pauses. His voice slips. “I’m lost.”

In every moment Zuko’s know Sokka, he’s never been lost. Zuko’s caught glimpses of doubt, moments of uncertainty, and clouds of gloom, but he’s never known Sokka to be lost. In everything he’d ever done, he always seemed to know his goal, and he nearly always had a plan to get there. “How so?” Zuko tries not to let his breath catch on his words. 

Sokka closes his eyes. “I thought I knew what I wanted. I had it in my mind, you know? I’d go back to the South, help rebuild. Help lead and train the warriors. And, one day, I pictured myself as chief.”

Zuko pictures Sokka as the chief too. It’s not a far stretch to imagine him clad in his furs, decorated with the beads and ornaments fitting for a man of his status. Mostly, it’s natural to see him as a leader. To picture him with his tribe behind him, ready to follow his word. Zuko knows he’d follow Sokka without question, without doubt. 

“But then I got home,” Sokka continues, “and it was good, at first. Our village was finally united. We started making contact with our encampments we hadn’t talked to in years. 

“But it’s weird, Zuko. All that time I was gone, nothing changed back home. I came home, full of all these stories. There’s one girl, Amka, who’s about Katara’s age. We used to be... well, not quiet friends, but at least friendly when we were younger. And I couldn’t wait to tell her my stories, you know? About the way that snow looks when it falls on trees that are still green. About how Ba Sing Se is so vast that you can stand on the wall of the middle ring and see miles and miles of city stretching out to the horizon in every direction. I couldn’t wait to tell anyone who would listen about the heat of the Fire Nation in the summer and the beaches made of black volcanic sand and the green ferns are as tall as me.”

Sokka opens his eyes; they’re full of stars. “And you know what? I told her. I couldn’t wait to tell anyone who’d listen about how big and wild the world is.

“But they didn’t care.”

“Sokka,” Zuko reaches out and rests his hand on Sokka’s knee. “That can’t be true.”

“Maybe. They cared that the war was over. They thanked me for what I did. But everything I saw? It might as well be a fantasy for them. They’d rather talk about the ice floes and the fish and whether the newest baby’s eyes look a little bit more like the neighbour’s than his fathers.” 

Zuko understands—he understands more than anyone else could. When he’d come back from his banishment, he found the same cooks and maids still working as if nothing changed. The merchants still sold their wares, only a different batch. Even his bedroom stayed untouched all the time he’d been away. He wanted to scream, to shake the world and say _I’m different now, can’t you see? You should all be different too._

But the fact is that change isn’t universal. Zuko wasn’t the same when he came back from his banishment; he wasn’t the same when he came back again as the Fire Lord. And, all that time, the Fire Nation stayed more or less the same. 

“It can be lonely,” he says. 

Sokka nods slowly. “I feel like my head is so full of all these amazing things, but I can’t say any of it without annoying someone. I don’t think anyone back home understands that I can’t just let go of my time away. It’s as much a part of me as my time at home. 

“I guess I’m not the same kid anymore. In another lifetime, I could’ve been a great chief. Maybe I would’ve only thought about my village and my people. But I definitely wouldn’t have gone to sleep every night dreaming about far off nations and people on the other side of the world. But I did leave, and I do think about that every night, and I can’t just let part of myself go now.”

 _Thank Agni for that._ Zuko can’t imagine a Sokka who let himself become dull; a friend who intentionally pared away bits of himself to please villagers. “Don’t,” he says without thinking. 

“I won’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m not lonely.” 

Sokka pauses and wipes his eyes and sits up. “Spirits, Zuko. You shouldn’t have let me rant like that. It’s your birthday party, for fucks sake.”

“It’s been too long since we talked,” Zuko admits. “This is nice. I needed a break from all the noise anyway.”

Sokka leans in. Up close, Zuko can see the way his skin crinkles around his eyes when he laughs and pulls tight around his emerging cheekbones. “You also shouldn’t let me ramble on about stupid things—“

“—it’s not stupid—“ Zuko cuts in. 

“—when you have people trying to _kill you_.” His face curls into a frown. 

“It was only once.”

“ _Zuko.”_

“Agni, fine. It might’ve been more than once, but it was only serious once.”

Sokka’s throat bobs. “You could’ve told me, you know. You can tell me anything.”

“I know.” Zuko stops—he debates his next words. “He tried to cut my throat.” His hand reaches for the scar. It’s not much of anything—only a fleck of raised tissue. If he didn’t know what it was from, it could have blended in as a slight blemish or birthmark. 

Sokka reaches forward. His hand stops an inch from Zuko’s throat and hovers there. 

“It’s okay,” Zuko says. 

Sokka’s soft finger traces over the raised bump. Zuko’s skin prickles under his touch—like a steady line of static that arcs through him and quickens his pulse. It’s hard to breathe, hard to think with Sokka so close. In the like light from the lanterns and moon, his face is half-cast in shadow. The concern, though, is palpable. His nose wrinkles, his eyes narrow, and his lips twitch. 

Zuko closes the distance before he reasons himself out of his desire. He kisses slow, testing and unsure, against the warmth of Sokka’s mouth. 

Sokka returns the movement, chaste but firm. His hand runs up, behind Zuko’s head, Sokka’s thumb along the rough edge of his scar. 

But as quickly as the warmth of Sokka—of his heartbeat and driftwood scent—start to drown Zuko, he’s pulled out of it and left in the cold again. 

Sokka drops his hand and his head leans back. His blue eyes widen. 

It must be a cruel joke, Zuko thinks, for him to change his mind like this. 

“We can’t,” Sokka sputters. He stands and looks down at Zuko, who’s still sitting in the soft grass. “We can’t,” he repeats. 

Zuko sucks in a breath. He can’t watch Sokka leave—he closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to. Sokka isn’t the cruel one. Zuko is. It was a stupid miscalculation to cross the line like that. 

Zuko groans. He could tear all his hair out of his top knot. Sokka opened up to him. And he’d ruined it. 

He sits there in the dark, under the tree and alone. If he listens closely enough, he can make out the distant hum of the music from his party. 

It’s the last place he wants to be right now, but he should make an effort to return. 

He’s debating how to best hide his embarrassment when he hears soft footfall on the garden’s flagstones. 

“Uncle,” he says as he looks up. 

“Fire Lord Zuko, I thought I’d find you here.” Uncle smiles, widely, blissfully unaware of the humiliation he’d just missed. 

“I’ll be back to the party in a moment. I just needed some air.” Zuko tries not to brush his eyes or fidget with his hair—Uncle knows his tells. 

“It’s your party, you can go back when you’d like.” Uncle chuckles. “But I came to find you because I have a present for you.”

“Uncle, you didn’t have to get me anything. Agni knows I have enough.” Not to mention Uncle refused any royal salary. He lived off the money from his tea shop, now. 

“I didn’t spend a single copper piece on this. I only had to reach out to some old friends.” Uncle sits in the grass next to Zuko, in the indent Sokka left in the grass. He reaches into his sleeve and holds out a scroll to Zuko. 

“What’s this?” There’s a design like a flower on the seal; it looks familiar but Zuko can’t place it. 

“This, Nephew, is everything the White Lotus has about the whereabouts of your mother.”

* * *

At breakfast the next morning Zuko wants to bring it up, but he finds himself catching his own words in his throat. It’s too much to say it out loud. _I’m going to find my mother._ To speak the words makes his intentions real; it means there’s no going back. It means, if he fails, everyone will know. And there’s too many people at this breakfast (which is still technically part of his birthday celebrations): Hakoda and Aang, gently poking fun at Katara as she eats slowly, her face tinged with pale nausea; Toph stretching across the table to steal the pastry from Aang’s plate while Uncle laughs; Ty Lee shamelessly flirting with a Water Tribesman; and Sokka…

Zuko swallows. For a brief second, Sokka looks from his plate and locks eyes with Zuko. Zuko pulls his head away and stares down at the table, face burning. _Agni._ If only he could take back last night. How stupid had he been? He shouldn’t have acted so boldly; he should have kept his desire close to his chest. But between the light buzz of the drinks, the soft breeze, and the moonlight, Zuko had forgotten his brain and moved without thinking. Sokka might as well have cast a spell on him. Once the light scent of Sokka—of sandalwood and sea and oil only used in the Water Tribes—hit Zuko, once Sokka’s warm hand was so close to his pulse, Zuko couldn’t have mustered a rational thought if he tried. 

His lips still tingle from the kiss. Or from the memory. 

But his heart’s still raw from the shame of Sokka snapping back. Of him rushing out of the garden.

Zuko sips his tea and lets the heat burn his throat on the way down. 

* * *

That afternoon, he finds himself with only his friends, sitting in a far courtyard. Aang plays a marble game with Toph; Sokka’s nose is buried in a book; Katara bends a tight stream of water through her fingers, almost absentmindedly. 

It’s as good a time as any, and since the rest of the guests had business to attend to, the pressure on his chest feels lighter. 

“I might have a lead on my mom,” Zuko says. It’s easiest to say it this way, to say that there _might_ be a _lead._ It’s almost noncommittal. It’s easier to play down if nothing pans out. 

“Your mom?” Aang perks up. “Zuko! That’s amazing.”

Katara places her hand lightly on his arm. “How did you find it?”

“Uncle gave me all he could find,” he says. It’s hard to meet any of their eyes at the moment so he focuses on the polished flagstones instead. “There’s some promising information she might be on an island in the Seagrass archipelago.” 

“I’ve never heard of it,” Toph says. It’s not meant to be mean; she is simply stating a fact. Outside of the Fire Nation, Zuko doubts anyone would have heard of the Seagrass Islands. They’re small, unimportant clusters of land off in the South-East. With no great resources or bustling population or strategic advantage so to speak of, they were left largely untouched by the war. 

“They’re not well known,” Zuko admits. “It’s a good place to… lay-low.” To hide. To run away. To avoid the horror of the world. 

“Just let us know when you’re ready to leave,” Aang says. “I can get Appa ready whenever you’re good to go.”

“Actually Aang, I think I need to do this alone.” Zuko shifts under the gaze of his friends. 

“I understand,” Katara says. Zuko suspected he could count on her support in this decision, which seems to shut down any attempt to protest in Aang. 

Zuko nods. It’s not that he doesn’t want them there—in fact, he wishes they could be by his side more often—but this is a trip he has to take by himself. He needs to find his mother. He needs to face her. 

The night he lost her, he was only a child, half-lucid and alone in his bed. And, if he fails, he’ll do that alone too. He needs his peace to be his own. 

They fall into conversation, after this. He answers when he’ll be leaving (a few days from now) and tells them about how Uncle will look after state business for him. Aang, Katara, and Toph all promise to help keep things civil while he’s away. 

It’s not lost on Zuko that Sokka doesn’t say a word during the whole conversation.

* * *

That night, he’s packing his bag when a sharp rap sounds from his bedroom door. 

“Enter,” he says. 

The door creaks. “ _Enter._ It sounds so official,” Sokka says. 

Zuko freezes, stuck in his own thoughts and fears. “Sokka.” There’s so much he wants to say—he wants to apologize and shrink into a corner and explain it all away, blame it on the sake, and confess his love all at the same time. 

Sokka, however, just leans against the wall. “So here’s the thing: I’m coming with you.” It’s not a question; he doesn’t wait for Zuko to respond. 

“No—Sokka, I need to do this—“

“What’s your plan?” Sokka cuts in. 

Zuko pauses. “Well, I was gonna get a boat and, I dunno, sail out to find her?”

Sokka gives him a pointed look. In the golden light of the evening, his blue eyes gleam and his skin holds every fleck of perfect sun. “Your whole plan is to get a boat and sail to her.”

“Yes?”

He pinches his nose. “Zuko—you’re the Fire Lord. The Fire Lord that people have been trying to _assassinate._ Were you even gonna bring a guard?”

Zuko falters, but that's enough of an answer for Sokka. 

“You helped me find my dad at the Boiling Rock. I’m going to help you find your mom.”

The way Sokka speaks pulls on Zuko’s heart. He’s so earnest about it, so honest. Over his time in the royal court, Zuko became unused to people wearing their hearts on their sleeves. Every minister and noble always had an ulterior motive, but Sokka had none. He just wanted to help. “I don’t know…”

Sokka sighs and bites his lip. “Zuko… I’m not really sure how to say this.” His eyes flicker to the sitting area in Zuko’s room. “Can we sit?”

Zuko nods and Sokka sits on the edge of a settee. He doesn’t flop down the way he usually does—he sits straight and rigid, like he doesn’t want to to relax

Zuko presses his lips into a line. He hopes that _he_ isn’t the cause of Sokka’s discomfort, but he know he’s hasn’t given Zuko a reason to relax either. Agni—Sokka visits for the first time in years and Zuko welcomes him by throwing him in jail and then unexpectedly kissing him in the garden. 

“So,” Sokka says, slapping his knees, “here’s the thing: the war’s been over for nearly three years now.”

“Yeah.”

“And the news has reached pretty much everywhere around the world by now. Even the most remote village and mountain towns.” He doesn’t say _and island_ but Zuko mentally adds it in anyway. 

“So?” Zuko’s not sure what Sokka’s trying to get at. 

“Zuko,” he says lightly, “are you prepared to deal with the fact that your mother might not want to be found?”

Zuko’s mouth parts and clamps shut again. Sokka is watching him, carefully, and Zuko’s mind tangles over itself. Honestly, he hadn’t considered that. He assumed that if he found her (and that was _if_ ) that they’d have a happy reunion. But she must’ve heard by now that Ozai is gone, that Zuko is the Fire Lord, and she still hasn’t reached out. “Oh.” 

“I think you could use someone with you.” Sokka gives Zuko a small but honest smile—as if he’s trying to encourage Zuko to go and assure him that he’ll be alright, no matter what he finds. “And I know my way around a boat.”

Zuko takes a breath. He can’t ignore the way his heart flutters around Sokka. And he can’t pretend the thought of spending hours alone on a boat together, sailing among the isles, cutting through the waves isn’t appealing. Even with the lingering awkwardness between them, there’s nothing more he wants than Sokka by his side. “Alright,” he says. 

Sokka’s dimple dents in his cheek. “Alright.” He grins, wide and bright. “When do we leave?”

“Two mornings from now. I’ve arranged for a personal boat.”

“Lee and Wang,” he says, “off on an adventure.” 

“Lee and Wang?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “It’s better to lay low, I think. We don’t want to stir up trouble.”

No, Zuko thinks, they wouldn’t want to do that—even if his mind swirls with exactly the kind of trouble he’d like to get up to with Sokka. 


	4. Chapter 4

The two days from when Sokka insists on coming with Zuko to when he leaves go by much too quickly and drag on at the same time. There’s so much to plan and prepare that everything is rushed, yet somehow every minute runs like tar. Zuko suspects the strange way that time wraps is probably due to the way his gut feels as if it’s full of rocks and his head throbs behind his temples. 

What if his mother stayed away on purpose? Zuko curses at himself—he’d never so much as thought it would be possible, but there’s only a slim list of reasons that could explain why she hadn’t come back. 

The first option, of course, is that something terrible happened. Zuko considered this possibility many times over the year (many more times than he would’ve liked). But even if his mother passed, Zuko needs closure. 

The second option is that she’s so deep in hiding that she doesn't know the war is over. That might’ve been a strong possibility in the first months afterwards (news takes a long time to spread to the far corners of the nation) but as more and more time passes, it’s doubtful she hasn’t heard by now. 

That leaves Zuko with option three—she knows the war over and hasn’t come home. There might be practical reasons blocking her from coming to find Zuko, but he can’t ignore the distinct and nagging option that she knows the war is over and he’s the Fire Lord, but chose to stay away. 

That option stings like a blade between Zuko’s ribs. 

He tries to put it out of his mind and focuses on rechecking his bag to make sure he’s packed everything essential. 

* * *

On the morning he’s set to leave, Zuko dresses in plain green and brown robes, similar to the kind he wore while travelling through the Earth Kingdom. It was Sokka’s idea—he insisted it would help them blend in. Zuko would never admit it to him, but there’s a strange comfort in the scratchy fabric. When he slips the straw hat on his head and tilts it over his scar, the tension wrought in his shoulders and back eases. For once, he’s not the Fire Lord. For once, he’s Lee. 

* * *

When Zuko arrives on the docks with his bag slung over his shoulder, he nearly misses Sokka. He blends in with the crowd—he’s dressed in a plain brown tunic and loose pants. His hair is free from his usual wolf tail and hangs around his jawline instead. Around his waist is a belt with a broadsword strapped to it. 

“Lee!” he says, waving down Zuko and pushing through the throng of people. “You ready?”

“I guess…” Zuko replies, “ _Wang._ ”

Sokka gives Zuko his wild, witty grin that makes his heart stutter. 

Sokka weaves through the docks like it’s the most familiar thing in the world. It might be for him, Zuko supposes. He probably spent a lot of time travelling in the past years. 

Once, Zuko had been familiar with this too. Over three years he became accustomed to the smell of the air (salt and fish) and the strings of casual shouting and cursing in the local tongue. Now, though, this world felt foreign to him all over again. People jostled him; fish were slung over his shoulder to merchants.

Zuko missed this, he realizes. 

He misses the bustle of life and the anonymity. 

“Come on,” Sokka says and pushes through to the end of the dock. In front of him is a Water Tribe style catamaran—all light wood and ropes and sloping white sails. 

It’s not the kind of boat Zuko had arranged for. “I don’t know how to sail that,” he admits. 

“I do.” Sokka jumps over the edge of the dock, landing solidly on his feet despite the boat’s sway. He eclipses the sun; it pours over his shoulder and gilds his silhouette against the blue sky. “Here,” he says, reaches out, and offers his hand. 

Zuko takes it. He lets Sokka guide him aboard. “I arranged for one of my vessels,” Zuko says. 

“Yeah. And I cancelled it.”

“They let you?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

“But _why_?”

“Look, Zuko. A naval vessel—no matter how small—isn’t exactly the most discreet option.”

“Oh.” Zuko steadies his footing on the catamaran. “I guess you’re right.”

Sokka sets down his bag and starts working on the ropes. “Of course I am,” he says without looking back. “Now come help.”

“But I don’t know—“

“Oh, come on, hotman. I’ll show you how to do it.” 

Zuko sets his bag in the wooden deck and moves beside Sokka.

“It’s like this—“ he loops a rope from the sail around a post and knots it in a blur—“you see?” 

Zuko blinks. “No?”

“Here.” Sokka sets the next rope in Zuko’s hand. “Just give it a try. I’ll help.” 

Zuko winds the end of the rope around the post. When it comes to rounding off the knot, he pauses. 

“Like this,” Sokka says and reaches out, winding his calloused fingers over Zuko’s soft hands. He helps Zuko tie off the loop. “It’s called the clove hitch.”

Zuko swallows. “Can you show me once more?” he asks.

Sokka is a wonderful teacher; he slows down and shows Zuko how to tie the knot once more, speaking deliberately and patiently. 

In fact, Sokka is such a good teacher that Zuko had gotten it the first time. 

* * *

The catamaran cuts through the waves. The wake sprays up and mists over Zuko’s face. In the sky, the sun hangs hot and full. 

Sokka crouches under the shelter in the centre of the boat and unpacks the maps from his bag. The shelter is small—more of a resting place than a proper area to bunk down—but it seemed comfortable enough with its cushions and blankets and water skins. 

“So,” Sokka says. He spreads the map across the ground. “If I planned this right, we’ll reach the Seagrass Islands before nightfall.”

Zuko nods in agreement and sits cross-legged next to Sokka. There’s a red line drawn across the map—their path marked out. For them, the first stop is Taiyo Island, the largest in the Seagrass cluster and the only one with anything close to a proper city. 

As Sokka goes to readjust the sail, Zuko hesitates. “Hey,” he says, “thanks again for your help. For your plans.”

“Don’t mention it. You’d do the same for me. You _did_ the same for me.”

Zuko chuckles. “Kinda. I don’t think I thought the prison break through the way you’ve done for this.” He pulls at the hem of his tunic. “You really payed attention to every detail.”

Sokka shrugs. “I had the clothing from when I was in the Earth Kingdom anyway. Might as well get some wear out of it.”

Zuko bites his lip. He’s wearing Sokka’s shirt. He should’ve put it together before—the damn fabric smells like Sokka, after all. He feels his cheeks start to warm and searches for a way to change the subject. “What were you doing in the Earth Kingdom anyway? The others didn’t say.”

“And you were too busy having me arrested to ask.” 

“You’re making it sound worse than it was—“

“I’m only joking.” Sokka pulls the rope to the sail, adjusting the angle. The muscles in his arms flex against his dark skin “I was actually visiting Kyoshi Island.”

“Oh.” Zuko finds a loose thread in his shirt very interesting. 

“No—it’s not—I mean…” Sokka sighs and sits next to Zuko once more. “Suki and I ended things.”

 _Oh._ Zuko’s suddenly very aware of how close Sokka is sitting. He can hear the soft fall of his breath. “That’s rough.” 

Sokka doesn’t look at Zuko, he crosses his arms and leans back and tilts his chin skyward. “It’s not too bad. It was more of a formality than anything, if I’m being honest. We ended a long time ago.”

Had they? Zuko had never heard anything and Sokka certainly never wrote it in his letters. 

“I loved her—and I still do, in a lot of ways—but we were just on separate paths, you know? She has Kyoshi Island to think of and her warriors. I have the Southern Water Tribe.”

“I know how that feels,” Zuko says. He can’t imagine trying to date someone as busy as he’s been over the past years—they’d never find a spare moment together. (That doesn’t mean he can’t dream about what he’d do if he _wasn’t_ so busy, though.)

“It’s just that during the war everything seemed so… in the moment, I guess. There wasn’t much point in thinking more than a few weeks in the future, let alone a few months.

“But then the war ended and we all had to switch to thinking _years_ ahead. And I guess in the middle of that things with Suki changed. You know? We had to start thinking long term.”

Zuko nods. “I know.” He looks down at his hands—the reason Sokka pulled away from their kiss in the garden wasn’t because of Suki. He wants to ask: is there anyone else? 

He doesn’t. Zuko couldn’t stand it if Sokka’s answer is ‘yes’. And clearly Sokka doesn’t want to talk about the kiss.

Instead, he leans back, like Sokka, and raises his head to the sky. Zuko tilts his hat over his face and lets the roll of the waves lull him into relaxation. 

* * *

  
  


Eventually, the bump on the horizon pulls into view—Taiyo Island. The dock is small and (in Zuko’s opinion) calling it a city is a stretch. Still, there’s thatched houses and stores and a market that rises up above the docks. The island itself isn’t much to see. They could probably sail around the whole perimeter in a few hours. 

As small and nondescript as Taiyo Island is, it’s the perfect place to start their search. 

“Let’s rest for the night,” Zuko says. “We can start our search tomorrow.” 

Sokka nods in agreement.

* * *

There’s an inn in the town, for which Zuko is grateful. It’s nice to have a proper bed, even if it’s size is more appropriate for a child than a grown man. The room is nice enough, though, with a decent amount of space between the two single beds and a window that looks down to the docks at the bottom of the slope. Zuko can even see the catamaran lit by the oil lamps if he cranes his head. 

Sokka laces his hands behind his head and leans back in his bed. “So,” he says, “how do we want to do this?”

“Uncle’s letter didn’t have a lot of specifics. I think our best bet is to start asking around and see if we can find a lead.”

Sokka nods. “Anything I should know?”

Zuko pauses. He hadn’t shown Sokka the letter Uncle wrote. It felt too personal, too intimate, to share it with him. “The White Lotus has reason to believe she helped defectors cross to the Earth Kingdom during the war.”

“That’s pretty badass,” Sokka points out. 

It is, Zuko thinks. If it was true, his mother risked her own life to help people leave the Fire Nation. More than that, it meant she continued to defy Ozai and the endless war. Pride swells in Zuko’s chest—he wants that story to be true. 

“It also might explain why she might be hesitant to return to the capital, you know. I mean, if _I_ spent years committing treason and defying the crown, I’d think twice before I went racing back to the capital.”

“Maybe.”

Sokka shifts and sits up straight on the bed. “Hey. I don’t plan on going back until we find her, okay?”

“Okay.” Zuko nods, but he can’t bring himself to meet Sokka’s eyes. 

“Do you have a picture of her or something? It might help when we ask around.” 

Zuko does have a picture. He pulls it free from his bag and runs his finger along the crease to smooth out the bump. “Here,” he says and hands Sokka the portait. 

Sokka turns it over in his hands. “She’s beautiful,” he says. 

He doesn’t say _she looks like Azula._ He doesn’t have too—Zuko knows from the line of concentration wrought into Sokka’s brow that he’s making the connections. Azula got their mother’s eyes (the colour of warm sand) and delicate cheekbones and slight nose and thin lips. Zuko thinks there’s something of her in his chin, but that’s where their similarities end. Zuko knows which parent he favours. 

“Do you have another picture of her?”

He shakes his head; this is the only one that was small enough to bring. 

“Hmm.” Sokka taps his chin. “That might be an issue.”

“Why?”

“Well, she’s sorta wearing a royal hair piece in this one. Not the most subtle way to find her if she’s lying low.”

“Oh.” Zuko cringes. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“It’s alright. I’ll draw a picture of her and we can show that around instead.”

Zuko bites his tongue. “Uh, no offense, Sokka, but maybe I should do it?”

“What? Is there something wrong with my drawing abilities?” 

A beat. “Yes.” 

Sokka scoffs in mock outrage—at least, Zuko assumes it’s mock—but hands back the picture anyway. Zuko stares at his mother’s image. She looks sad, he thinks. Or mabye defeated is a better word. Her eyes seem blank; her mouth is a line. If he could render her from his memory, he’d like to but the spark back in her soul. 

Zuko’s no great artist, but he does have an idea. He pulls a blank scrap of paper from his bag and fishes out a brush and some ink. The sun is down and the light coming through the window from the streetlamps is dim, but it should be enough for his plan to work. Carefully, he smooths out the photo of his mother and layers the blank paper on top of it. There’s just enough light for him to see the outline underneath. 

His hand shakes as he starts, but he runs the brush along the lines of her face, tracing the image. It’s not perfect—his lines waver, the ink blots. When he gets to the crown of her head, he makes a new, smooth line at the back where her topknot and royal hair piece should be. 

Behind him, Sokka moves. Zuko feels him hovering at his shoulder. It’s enough to make him want to loose focus, to melt into the floorboards. 

Instead, he finishes tracing the lines of his mother’s lips. He adds his own flourish—he makes them pull up at the edges. This is how he remembers her. Or it’s at least how he wants to remember her: smiling and laughing and pulling him closer next to the turtleduck pond. 

“You missed your calling,” Sokka whispers. “You should’ve been an artist.”

Zuko chuckles dryly. But, as he pulls away his freshly inked drawing of his mother, he admits it’s better than he expected. “A great artist who can only trace.”

Sokka shrugs. “You’d be the first of your kind. Maybe people would find some novelty in the gimmick.”

“Maybe,” Zuko says with a slight smile. “Maybe.” 

* * *

They ask around Taiyo Island the next day. Sokka shoves the rough-traced portrait of Zuko’s mother under the nose of every fishmonger and salesman and seamstress they come across. They’re careful not to use her name—there’s no way she’d be going by Ursa anymore and the last thing they want to do is raise any suspicion.

Which is why Zuko lets Sokka do all the talking while he hangs back with his hat tilted down over his eye and his arms crossed over his chest. The Fire Lord showing up in the middle of a market would be certain to turn a few heads. 

But Sokka’s questions are only met with firm head shakes and resonding ‘no’s. 

“Never seen her,” says the fishmonger. 

“I can’t remember the face of every woman who ever came through my shop,” snaps the seamstress. 

By the end of the day, they return to their room no further into the search than when they left. 

“That’s not true,” Sokka says when Zuko complains. “We know she’s not here now. I mean, unless everyone in this whole town can lie really _really_ well, she’s not here. One less place to search.”

“And about a hundred more to go,” Zuko mumbles. It’s not that he thought she’d be here—in fact, he’d have been surprised if she _was_ —but he’d hoped they’d at least have a lead. There’s dozens of islands in the Seagrass Archiplelgo, ranging from ones big enough to have a small village and surrounding farms to islands so small they’re hardly more than skiffs of sand with a few scattered huts. 

“We’ll leave for Ryhoshi Island first thing in the morning,” Sokka promises. It’s not the next biggest island, but it is the fishing hub of the Seagrass Islands. It’s a good bet, Zuko thinks. Lots of people on the island are fishermen—meaning they’ve been at sea and likely travelled around the islands. There’s a better chance that they’ll have information compared to a farmer who scarcely left his field. 

As Zuko slips on his night clothes, he tries very hard to ignore the fact Sokka is sitting behind him, his nose buried deep in a book. 

* * *

The next morning, Zuko wakes at dawn. He stretches out the aches in his arms and the crick in his back from the cheap mattress. 

“Ugh.” Sokka pulls his pillow around his head and rolls over with a flop. “There’s no point in leaving now. It’s gonna storm later—we should stay an extra day.” 

Zuko crosses to the window and pulls back the curtains. In the distance, the sun rises over the ocean. A few fishermen at the docks are loading onto a boat. But, out in the South, a cluster of dark and bloated clouds hang over the ocean. “How’d you know?”

Sokka sits up, his hair tossled with sleep, and shrugs. “After I broke it, good old leggy has never failed to let me know when there’s _a storm a-comin_ ,” he says, pitching his voice to sound like a craggy old fisherman. “I feel it in my bones.”

Zuko snorts. “Sounds useful.”

“I guess. But I’d rather not feel like I’m ancient. I’m only nineteen, man.” 

“Mhmm.” Zuko closes the curtain again. There’s no point in rushing if they’re staying an extra night. “It doesn’t give you any other trouble though?”

“Nah. Katara healed it up nice and good.” 

“That’s good.” Zuko sits back down on the edge of his bed. 

Sokka looks at him, his mouth pulling in as if he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. 

“Zuko?” he finally asks. 

“Yeah?”

“Does it ever hurt?”

Zuko’s hand goes to his face instinctively. It’s a defense, he knows. He wants to hid his and wrinkled skin. 

“I’m sorry,” Sokka jumps in, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s alright. It’s just hard to think about.” Zuko takes a breath. “It doesn’t ever hurt, exactly,” he says. _At least not anymore._ “Sometimes it feels...tight? I guess? And itchy. The weather doesn’t really make a difference, though. It just happens sometimes.”

“Oh,” Sokka says. “Maybe Katara could help with it?”

Zuko stills. It feels like a nightmare, that night in the caves under Ba Sing Se. The time Katara offered to heal him. It haunts him—the way he betrayed Uncle. Aang almost dying. And as much as Zuko’s sworn to never being _that_ version of himself ever again, it still hurts. Uncle and Aang and Katara might’ve forgiven him, but Zuko couldn’t let it go. How differently would things have gone if he’d ignored Azula on that day? If he learned earlier to let his father go?

He runs his finger absentmindely over his scar. “Um. It’s fine,” he says. “I have ointments that help. Massaging it usually does the trick.”

“Well, that’s good,” Sokka says. He sounds hesitant, Zuko thinks. A bit too awkward and uncomfortable—usually, Sokka’s voice is dripping with confidence. 

“Zuko?”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing.” Sokka looks down at the wooden floorboards of their room. 

Zuko’s seen that look before. Sokka was thinking of the question that everyone he met wanted to know but few asked. Aang had asked Zuko that question a long time ago—back when they were stuck together at the Sun Warrior’s temple. Katara had asked it too when she was healing the lightning blast on his chest. Toph asked him the night after they’d seen the Ember Island Players’ awful reenactment of their lives. “You don’t know how I got it, do you?”

“Should I?”

Zuko clenched his hand into a fist and flexed to release the tension. “It was Ozai. I was thirteen. He said I disrespected him. So, yeah. Got a scar and a banishment.”

Sokka’s eyebrows arch high; his eyes widen and his grin falls. “Zuko,” he whispers. “I never knew.”

“I told the others a long time ago. I assumed they passed the story on.” It’s not a story Zuko likes to tell. 

Sokka is the first person he’s ever told it to without directly being asked.

“It wasn’t my place to ask them or their place to tell me,” Sokka says. “Spirits, Zuko. I never knew.” 

Zuko feels his lip shake. He scrunches his eyes closed and pushes back the dampness building in the corners. “Well, I never told you,” he tries to make it sound like a joke, like just another light-hearted quip. 

Before he can say anything else, the force of Sokka slams into Zuko. Sokka’s hands wrap around his back. His head leans in. He smells of the same plain soap he always uses and the detergent the inn used to launder their bedding. “I’m sorry,” he says.   
  
For a moment, Zuko freezes under Sokka’s touch. “It’s not like it’s your fault.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

And, with that, Zuko melts into Sokka’s hug. 

* * *

Later that morning, after a quiet breakfast of oatmeal in the inn, they decide to go to the market before the storm hits in full force. A bit of light rain falls, but they’ve had much worse. 

Yesterday, at the market, they didn’t have much time to do anything expect ask around. Today, they return to the stalls that hold the most interesting goods—spices from the Fire Nation, weapons from the Earth Kingdom, one woman even has beads from the Northern Water Tribe. 

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Sokka gestures to the market. “There was nothing like this at home.”

“Good thing, too, or you would be broke.”

“Not you too,” Sokka whines. “Aang and Katara were always breathing down my back. They were all ‘you don’t need another blue tunic, Sokka,’ and ‘what would we do with tsungi horn, Sokka,’ and ‘you don’t even have your ears pierced, what would you do with earrings.’” 

“How dare they.” 

“Right! Unfair, unfair.” Sokka shakes his head and wanders over to a stall displaying fine leatherwork—everything from wrist cuffs to scabbards. “I mean _look._ It’s beautiful,“ he says and reaches out for a journal sitting in the stall. He turns over the book in his hand. The cover is dark leather, carved with swirling patterns, and all wrapped in a long string. “Important people use journals like these. _These_ journals will be in libraries a hundred years from now.”

“Will they?”

“Of course,” Sokka says and sighs before setting it back down. “But we do have to eat for however long we’re on this trip.”

“That’s a responsible choice. I’m impressed.” 

“Hey—Katara isn’t all my impulse control. Just, like, 80% of it. 90% on a bad day.” 

“Mhmm.” Zuko grins. 

“You don’t believe me?” Sokka shakes his head. “I am wounded by that, you know. Wounded. In fact, I’m gonna be responsible right now—I’m gonna go by some fruit for us tonight. Because I’m thinking ahead—“ Sokka taps his temple— “see?”

“Good for you,” Zuko says.

As Sokka walks off toward the fruit seller at the end of the row of stalls, Zuko turns to the leather booth. “I’ll take the journal,” he calls to the man at the back of the stall, keeping his voice low and his hat down. He fishes a gold coin from the bottom of his pocket. 

The old man turns from his work and grins. “Good choice,” he says and hands Zuko his change. “You know, you kinda look familiar—“

“I get that a lot,” Zuko grumbles. He shoves the leather journal to the bottom of his bag and heads down the rain-wetted street to Sokka. 

“You good?” Sokka asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” Zuko hopes he’s not shifting his bag so much that it’s obvious. 

Either way, Sokka turns to the vendor and buys half a dozen moon peaches. 

They eat them in the room that afternoon and listen to the storm rage outside. The wind knocks the shutters against the wall and the lightning flashes through the dark and the sweet fruit lingers on Zuko’s tongue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taiyo Island = Sun Island 
> 
> Rhyoshi Island= Fishermen Island


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning is clear and bright and they sail on to Ryoshi Island. The catamaran skims over the waves. Zuko lets the ocean breeze wash over his hair. Sokka pulls the ropes and adjusts their course. 

They don’t find anyone on Ryoshi who knows anything about Ursa.

“Well,” Sokka says, “on we go.”

* * *

On they go for another three weeks. At night, they stay at small inns or rent rooms or camp on the catamaran on their bedrolls. In the day, the ask around whatever island they’re on and Sokka holds out the drawing of Ursa to anyone they pass. Some islands are so small that they’ve asked every inhabitant by noon. The next day they set off, sail through the turquoise water, to whatever island is next. 

And they repeat it all over again. 

They fish; they buy fresh fruit. Sokka shows Zuko how the Water Tribe sails. Zuko promises to take him on a steam ship when they return. 

They find nothing.   
  


* * *

  
They’re sailing between two islands (both of which have probably less than a hundred people combined) when Sokka leans back and opens his mouth. “Have you ever heard of haikus?”

Zuko turns from looking at the small island on the horizon. The sun beats relentlessly down overhead and he has to shield his eyes to look at Sokka without squinting. “Like the poems?”

”Yeah.”

”I mean I studied some with my tutors when I was a kid, but I don’t know much else.”

”We could share some lines / Pass the time on the ocean / Keep away boredom.”

It takes a moment for Zuko’s brain to catch up with what Sokka just said. “Was that one?”

”Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’. “You try.”

”I really don’t—“

”Okay, okay, I’ll do one more.”

Sokka closes his eyes and brushes a strand of his dark hair away from his face. “Sailing with Zuko / Our only care is the wind / Living forever.”

Zuko swallows the words and lets them sit in his throat. “I won’t be good at this. Not the way you are.”

”Do you think I care? / I’m looking for ways to pass / the time, not away.” He grins wildly at his pun.

”Fine.” Zuko takes a breath. “You said we could be,” he starts, counting the syllables on his fingers. “Lee and Wang on this journey / I’m holding you to it.” 

“See? You’ve got the hang of it.” Sokka nods in encouragement. “Even if that last line was six, not five.”

* * *

  
“I don’t know, Sokka,” Zuko says one night. They’ve been gone nearly a month, now. Zuko has no doubts in Iroh’s ability to lead the nation, but he can’t disappear forever. “Maybe we’re chasing a ghost.”

“Don’t say that. We’ll find something.”

And the next day, they do.   


* * *

They’re in a pub on Suna Island and Sokka’s flashing the drawing around as usual. Zuko nurses a glass of sake. No one can say they’re not paying customers. 

“Have you seen this woman?” Sokka holds the drawing under the noses of a cluster of men sitting at the bar. They all shake their heads and one waves him off. 

Sokka rolls with it; he turns to the two women seated next to them. “Do you know anything about this woman?” They look, frown, and shake their heads. 

One of the women says something to Sokka, but Zuko doesn’t catch it—his attention shifts back to the men at the bar. At the far end, a thin man with a patchy beard stares at Sokka’s back. When Sokka leans in to talk with the woman, the man sets coins on the counter and slips away. 

Zuko sets down a few copper pieces and follows. 

Outside, in the alley shaded by the low sun of later afternoon, the man ducks his head and walks at a brisk pace. 

“Hey,” Zuko says. 

The man keeps walking—he doesn’t even so much as glance back. 

“Hey!”

The man breaks into a sprint. His feet hit the ground and he turns out of the alleyway into the village street. 

Zuko runs after him. He knew something was off. The man was too shifty around Sokka. Taking off afterward, though… well, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. It’s an amateur mistake, at best. 

But amateur or not, Zuko needs to know. “Wait!” he yells and pushes aside a man in his way. 

The runner isn’t fast, thankfully. Zuko catches him before the end of the street. He grabs a handful of his shirt and slams him against the wall of a shop. 

“Fuck off,” the man spits. His breath is ragged—such a short sprint knocked the wind out of him. 

With one hand, Zuko keeps his grip on the man’s shirt. He rests his free hand on the hilt of his sword. “What do you know about her.”

The colour drains from the man’s face, but he says nothing, he only raises his hands in surrender. Up close, Zuko sees that the man can’t be much older than himself, only a few years his senior at most. 

“What do you know,” he repeats, his voice low and warning. The villagers are looking on, staring. Let them, Zuko thinks. 

“Nothing.” The man closes his eyes. “I don’t—I don’t know anything.”

Zuko pushes his hand forward, close to the man’s throat. He hopes the threat is understood. 

“Lee!” 

Zuko’s head whips around at the sound of Sokka’s voice. The fraction of an opening is all the man needs—Zuko’s head is reeling before he even understands what happened. He hits the dirt of village road with a dull thud. Around him, the world spins. In front of him, the man starts to run again. Behind him, Sokka yells ‘Lee’ and then ‘stop’. 

Zuko pushes himself up, his hands sinking into the wet ground. 

As Zuko gets to his feet, something whizzes past his ear, much too close for comfort. Numbly, he runs his hand along the spot where it almost collided.  _ Boomerang _ , he realizes. 

It finds its mark; the man collapses into the ground. 

“You alright?” Sokka’s hand rests on Zuko’s shoulder. 

He nods and straightens his hat. “He knows something.”

Sokka walks over and…

He  _ helps  _ the man to his feet. Zuko’s head reels for the second time in moments. What in Agni’s name is he doing?

“Sorry about my friend,” Sokka says and helps the man steady himself. “He tends to be overdramatic sometimes.” He claps the man in the back as if they’re old friends. 

The man’s eyes dart between Zuko and Sokka. 

“I’m Wang,” Sokka says, “and this is my buddy Lee—“ he jerks his thumb back at Zuko— “and we could really use your help… you know, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Yan,” the man says slowly. He rubs at the spot where Sokka’s boomerang collided with his head. 

“Yan. We really need to find this woman.”

Yan shakes his head firmly. “I already told you, I don’t know anything.” 

“See, you keep saying that, but I think you do know something.”

Again, Yan shakes his head. “I don’t, honestly—“

“Enough!” Zuko draws his swords. A few of the villagers watching from the edge of the street gasp. One even yells for Zuko to stand down. 

Zuko points the tip at Yan. “Where is she.”

Yan’s mouth hardens into a line. “You might as well kill me, because I won’t tell.”

“Kill you? What?” Sokka steps in between Zuko and Yan. “We’re not trying to hurt  _ anyone _ , let alone the Lady in the picture.”

“I don’t care. I’ve made myself clear,” says Yan.

Zuko takes a deep breath, sheaths his swords, and tilts his chin up, giving Yan a full view of his scar. It’s a risk, certainly. It could be a poor choice. But honestly, Zuko doesn’t care if it gets him to speak. “I’ll ask one last time: where is she?”

Yan’s eyes rest on Zuko’s scar before they widen in understanding. “My Lord,” he says, catching himself on his words. “I—I apologize.” He leans forward into a deep bow. 

Faintly, Zuko is aware that the onlookers are stirring. He and Sokka will have to leave this place quickly if they want to avoid causing a stir. It might be too late, even, if word gets out the Fire Lord is trying to track down some woman. Agni, the gossips would have a field day with that one. 

“You didn’t know it was me,” Zuko says. “You don’t need to apologize. All I need is for you to tell me what you know about this woman.”

The sheen of sweat on Yan’s forehead glistens. “My Lord, I can’t.” There’s something in his tone—it’s softer now. 

“Please,” Zuko whispers. “She’s my mom.” And with that, he breaks. He steps back and pulls away his gaze. They’re so close, damn it. They could have a lead (a real lead!) and no matter how small it might be, Zuko will follow it. 

“My Lord,” Yan says. His lips turn downward and he pauses for a moment. “I promised her I wouldn’t say—she saved my brother, I owe her my life.”

“If you really do owe her your life,” Sokka says, “then help us find her. She saved your brother—give her back her son.”

Yan pauses and takes a deep breath. “She’s on Kaze Island. She goes by the name Roka.”

A spark jolts down Zuko’s spine and spreads to his limbs. “Thank you,” he says.  _ Thank you.  _

* * *

Kaze Island is still a long stretch away. It’s nearly at the Earth Kingdom and they’re still far in the West. 

Sokka charts the route out on his map. “It’s solid two days of sailing,” he says. “We’ll have to camp on the boat overnight.”

They’ve managed to avoid travelling overnight so far, but Zuko nods. “Will we be able to keep our course? We won’t be able to see anything on the horizon.”

Sokka nods. “I can navigate by the stars.”

He says it as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, as if it isn’t a brilliant talent. There’s so much about Sokka—every time Zuko thinks he has a handle on him, he pulls back another layer, revealing more and more and more. 

Sokka, completely oblivious to Zuko’s wonder, folds his tunic and shoves it in his bag. “I wonder why she’s going by Roka,” he muses. 

“It’s the feminized form of Roku,” Zuko explains. 

“Like the old Avatar?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. I wonder why?”

“Well, he was her grandfather. It’s not that much of a stretch.”

“ _ Her grandfather _ ? Wait—Zuko. Your great-grandfather is Roku?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Sokka pulls his hands over his face. “And you held this back? I’ve missed endless jokes about Aang being your grandpa. So many wasted opportunities for him to tell you to go to your room!”

“I mean… that’s not really how it works—“

“Endless!”

* * *

They sail through the day and into the night. Zuko sleeps first after Sokka insists it’s easier for him to follow the stars. 

“Besides,” Sokka says, “you wake up so early already. I’m not hauling my ass up at dawn.”

But not long after Zuko drifts into a light sleep, he feels a hand shake his shoulder. 

“Zuko,” Sokka whispers, “come look at this.”

In the darkness, Zuko rubs his eyes. There’s no moon tonight—he can barely make out Sokka standing in front of him. “What?” he groans. 

“Come see.” Sokka grabs Zuko’s hand and hauls him to his feet. “Watch your step.” Sokka doesn’t let go of Zuko’s hand as he guides him to the edge of the catamaran. 

“Look,” he says. 

In front of Zuko is a world of stars—above and below. Pinpricks of light cut through the darkness and swirl together in a milky band across the centre. He’s floating, he’s sure. The line where the sea meets the horizon is invisible, indivisible. The whole world is this alone: Sokka and Zuko in their globe of stars. 

“Woah,” Zuko says. 

“It’s incredible. I’ve heard stories from the sailors—it can only happen when the water is unusually calm.” 

For the ocean, it is incredibly calm. The water is more like a placid lake than the sea—the tides are kind to them tonight. 

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Zuko tilts his chin skyward and stares. If he could stop this moment in time, he would. He would memorize every star, every comet. He would keep Sokka’s warm hand in his until all the stars burnt out. 

“You see that one, there?” Sokka points to a cluster of bright stars that make a loop. “That’s Akna.”

“I don’t know that story.”

“Akna was the wife of Silla—a hero of the water tribe blessed with incredible strength by the spirits. At first, he kept the South safe from anyone who dared to attack. 

“But over time, he grew arrogant. He never passed up any opportunity to show off his skill. 

“So, one winter, when the hunt was over, the Spirits turned Anka into an elk-hound. 

“The village already had more than enough to last them through the winter, but Silla wouldn’t be at peace knowing a great prize was still out there. So, that might, he packed a bag and went on a hunt.”

“Oh,” Zuko says. He can see where this is going. 

Sokka squeezes his hand tighter. “Yeah.

“It was only after Silla shot down Akna with his arrows that she changed back. 

“When he realized what he’d done, Silla begged and pleaded with the spirits. He swore he’d give up anything—his strength, his life—just to have her back. 

“The spirits, of course, refused. He got what he deserved, they decided. 

“But one spirit did take pity on Akna as she was wounded and dying. The spirit brought her to the stars and put her there so she could watch over her love and her children.”

Zuko stands there, unsure what to say. He can’t see a woman in the cluster of stars Sokka pointed out, but it still haunts him, knowing the Akna is looking over everything that was pulled away from her. 

“I always hated that story,” Sokka says. 

“What?”

“I mean—it was Silla who messed up, but Akna paid the price. It shouldn’t be that way. It should’ve been Silla.”

“Maybe,” Zuko says, “but it’s not wrong. Our mistakes often end up hurting those we care about more than ourselves.”

“Maybe.” Sokka pulls his head from the stars and looks at Zuko. 

He’s beautiful in the star light. It’s so dark that Zuko can’t make out his finer features, but he still sees the lines of his jaw and the width of his shoulders. 

Sokka steps closer. The water lulls the boat and the gentle breeze ripples the canvas of the sail. 

“Sokka,” he says. 

“Zuko.”

“Why did you leave that night?” Zuko asks. His own boldness surprises him, but there’s nothing to lose, not now. 

He feels Sokka’s pause. “I heard someone coming. I mean, we’d both been drinking. I didn’t want to cause an international scandal.”

“It was only Uncle.”

Sokka’s grip tightens. “But I’m not entirely wrong about that last part.”

And, Agni, he’s not. That part might hurt the most. “You’d be worth it, I hope you know.” 

And there’s fingers running through Zuko’s hair. And there’s a hand still in his hand. And there’s lips on his lips and a ragged breath in his ear. 

He shouldn’t do this—he shouldn’t jump back in like this again. 

But Zuko does. He does and he always will, he thinks.

There’s no version of them where he doesn’t fold under Sokka’s kiss, where he does return the kiss with the fire that’s always burning behind his breastbone. 

Zuko takes the moment. Now, he’s not the Fire Lord. There’s not centuries of tradition sitting on his shoulders. Now, they’re not being watched by the entirety of a nation. 

It’s only him and Sokka and their boat and the endless oceans of stars above and below. 

* * *

They reach Kaze Island the next afternoon. 

“Are you ready?” Sokka asks. 

“No.” Zuko hops out of the catamaran and ties it to the little dock. Kaze Island isn’t the smallest place they’ve been too by far, but it still can’t have more than a few hundred people on it. 

“Could you point us in the direction of a woman named Roka?” Sokka asks a fisherman. 

“Take the north road out past the apple grove. It’s the house on the top of the hill, if she’ll see you,” the man grunts. 

They take the north road, walking slowly together in comfortable silence. Zuko’s glad the cut of his brown tunic hides his collarbone more than his Fire Nation clothing ever would. 

He can’t stop smiling, when he thinks about it. Sokka’s here. Sokka’s with him. Sokka’s walking so close at his side that their arms brush together. 

Even the nerves over meeting his mother can’t bring him down today—even if they refuse to be quieted. 

Finding his mother again always felt like a lofty goal. An almost-real dream. Is she really here after all these years? Kaze Island is nice, but it’s no more than a few orchards, a farm here and there, and a fishing village with no more than two dozen buildings. It’s a far cry from the palace. 

“Hey,” Sokka says. He smiles at Zuko. “I’m here for you.”

“I know.” And he does know. 

When the road finally reaches the end of the apple grove, the land next to them opens into a wide field. There’s a young girl playing; she makes her doll dance on the top of a stone. The gusts of wind tossels the long grasses like waves. A wooden fence sections it off from the dirt road and, at the top of the hill, is a small stone house. 

“Hey,” Sokka calls to the girl. He leans on the top of the fence. “Is that Roka’s house?”

The girl looks up. She’s only five, maybe six. Her dark hair is cropped short, and she’s nearly drowning in her pink robes. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” she says. 

“Well, that’s a very good call,” Sokka says. “But my friend here needs to see Roka. He knows her. And you don’t have to talk to us at all.”

The girl’s eyes narrow. They’re the colour of warm, golden sand. “DADDY!” she screams at the top of her lungs and takes off through the field, back to the house. 

“Oh great,” Zuko groans. 

“We’ll be alright.” Sokka waves him along the final stretch of road to the house. 

The girl disappears into the stone cottage and, a moment later, a tall man comes out. He’s handsome, Zuko thinks, with tanned skin and warm brown hair and smile-line around his eyes. “You need to leave,” the man says, his voice much more stern than his appearance. 

“We’re looking for Roka,” Sokka says. He steps forward, toward the man. Zuko hangs back and makes sure his straw hat covers his scar. 

“You’ve come to the wrong place. I can’t help you.”

“ _ Please. _ It’s important. We’re not here to cause any trouble—we just need to talk.”

The man shakes his head tersely. “Leave, if you know what’s best for you.”

Sokka takes a step back. He says nothing. Zuko wouldn’t know how to reply to that either. There’s not much they could say to change this man’s mind. 

Zuko pulls off his hat and moves out from Sokka’s shadow. “Please,” he says. “I’m her son.”

The cottage door crashes open. 

His mother stands in front of him, her lips parted and her eyes full of disbelief. “Zuko,” she says. 

It’s all come in a circle, Zuko thinks. In his last, fleeting memory of his mother, she’s running away, her face frozen with fear. And now she’s rushing toward him, her eyes wet. 

He braces himself for her hug, but it still shocks him when she wraps her arms around him. “Zuko,” she says again. 

He’s taller than her, now. Her head fits into the crook of his neck. “Mom.” Zuko leans in and holds her tight.

If he’d held on tighter back then, if he’d held onto her like this, maybe she never would’ve left. 


	6. Chapter 6

When he pulls away from her embrace, he takes in a good, clear picture of her. She looks so much like she did the night she left. She’s a little more hollow, now, with her gaunt cheeks. A little more rough, with porous skin and calloused hands. Grey streaks from her temples pull through her hair. There’s a bend to her nose that didn’t use to be there—she must’ve broken it, at some point. But it’s her. It’s her, it’s her, it’s her. 

She reaches up towards Zuko’s scar. He lets her run her finger along the puckered skin. “Oh, Zuko,” she says. 

Zuko takes her hand. “It’s alright, mom. I made it.” 

She squeezes his fingers and pushes to her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his forehead. When she left, Zuko could still fit under the crook of her arm. “You found me,” she whispers. 

Zuko can only nod. There are a hundred things he wants to say—he’d made a list, once. He wants to ask her why and how she left and why and how come she didn’t come back and why and how everything happened in between. But he can’t find the words. His heart climbs into his throat and closes it up. 

“Zuko,” she says. “This is Ikem.” She gestures to the man standing beside her. “He’s my husband.”

Zuko hadn’t considered the possibility she’d remarry. This man—Ikem—is his step-father. Zuko has a step-father. A man he doesn’t even know, a man with thick arms and bronzed skin and a judgemental frown, is now inextricably linked to his life. 

“And the girl,” his mother says, “that’s Kiyi. Our daughter.”

Zuko’s mind goes blank. “Yours… as in  _ yours _ ?” 

She nods. “She’s your sister.” 

Zuko freezes. Out of everything he’d expected, somehow he hadn’t imagined this. He doesn’t know how to react. What to say. What can he say? It’s been years and they’ve been miles apart. 

Zuko probably would’ve stood there, numb, for hours if it wasn’t for Sokka behind him. Sokka, who clears his throat and shuffles his feet on the gravel. 

“Mom, this is Sokka. He’s my…” and Zuko’s mind, for the third time in as many minutes, hits a wall. There’s not a word that can sum up Sokka. He’s more than a friend. It doesn’t feel right, yet, to put any labels on their romantic attachments. Besides—Sokka is so much more than a lover or boyfriend. Partner, maybe. But that sounds so dull. “This is Sokka,” he settles on. 

“Hi,” Sokka says. He waves, almost awkwardly, to the rest of them. 

“Hi,” his mother says. Her cheeks dimple when she smiles. Zuko had forgotten that. “Come in, please. I’ll make tea.”

Zuko agrees. He starts to follow them into the stone cottage (those dark stones gleaming against the long, waving grasses) but he feels Sokka’s hand on his wrist. “What is it?”

Sokka bites his lip. “Look—maybe I should head back to the boat? Or I can find a room to rent in town.”

“What?” 

“I don’t want to intrude.”

Zuko stares at Sokka’s face. It’s all he can do to stop himself from reaching up to brush his cheek. “Sokka. You’re not intruding.”

“You're sure?”

“I was there for you at the boiling rock. It’s not just that you’re not intruding—I need you here with me,” Zuko whispers. “I don’t think I can do this alone.”

Sokka nods curtly and follows Zuko inside. The warmth he radiates, even from a distance, is enough to get Zuko through the door. 

* * *

The cottage is cozy, if not a little cramped. There’s a fire crackling along on the far wall and a table in front of it with a vase full of wildflowers. Knit blankets line the couches. Theatre masks decorate the walls. Every inch of the place feels lived in. Like it belongs to real people. The palace never felt like this—even in his bedroom, Zuko was only permitted the slightest of personal touches. He certainly never would’ve been allowed to keep books on his side table. There was never an ever-present tea-pot in the royal dining room. Agni, even the kitchen was tucked away at the palace, the food always came out as if by magic instead of through real work. 

“It’s lovely,” he says. 

“It’s a bit dirty, I’m afraid,” his mother says as she wipes a thin layer of dust off the chairs. “The windows here never seem to keep anything out when the wind starts blowing.

“It’s not much.” She looks around the room. 

“It’s perfect.”

* * *

Ikem pours the tea while they gather at the table. Kiyi hides under the couch in the corner—she won’t stop glaring at Zuko and Sokka. Which, Zuko supposes, is a good thing. She shouldn’t trust strangers so easily. 

Ikem sets the pot down, sinks into his seat next to Ursa, and gently holds her hand. Zuko’s not sure if he’s a man of few words or if it’s just the present company that’s making him hold his tongue. 

“You’ve come a long way,” Ikem finally says. “How’d you find us?”

“Uncle used his connections to get a lead. From there, we’ve been sailing around. Asking anyone we could.” Zuko swallows. He didn’t think it would be this hard to talk about it. He thought he’d dealt with this long ago. But now the wound of her leaving feels raw and horrid and fresh. “You’re not easy to find.”

“That’s not by accident, I’m afraid.” Ursa clasps her hands in front of her. “When I left…” she stops, her words choked. “When I left, I knew Ozai would follow.”

“You did what you had to,” Zuko says. But even as he says it, he feels a little hollow. Of course, she had to leave. Of course, she had to hide. But knowing she did what she had to do doesn’t negate Zuko’s loss. Part of him wants to scream, wants to ask why she didn’t take him with her. But he knows why she couldn’t. 

The tragedy of it all hit them both; they’d both lost each other. 

Zuko clears his throat. “I heard you helped some people escape to the Earth Kingdom.” 

She nods. “We helped the defectors.”

“I thought Jeong Jeong and his group were the only ones to have ever left the army?” Sokka asks, clearly curious. 

Ursa smiles around her teacup. “There needs to be legends, to give people hope they can leave too. But, generally speaking, the fewer people who know you defected the better. We’ve helped dozens flee over the years. I truly hope you haven’t heard of any of them.” 

Zuko shakes his head. He hadn’t. All the better that these men and women have nothing to hold them to the Fire Nation anymore. Not even a story. 

They slip into easy chatter from there. Catching up on the lost years is easier than Zuko had expected it would be. She’s still the same, even if her warmth is buried under a layer of world-weariness now. But, in some ways, his mother seems happier than he remembers her ever being in the palace. 

“So,” Sokka says, “how did you two meet?” He gestures to Ikem, who looks unsure. 

“Ikem and I grew up together,” his mother says. “We used to be in the same theatre.”

Zuko had always known his mother loved the theatre, but he never knew she was an actress, too. When he sees the way that his mom and Ikem look at each other, though, he suspects that her love of the theatre isn’t only borne from the art itself. 

The question is on his tongue:  _ if you loved Ikem, why did you ever leave?  _ But Zuko swallows it down. He suspects he won’t like the answer. He usually doesn’t when Ozai is involved. 

They stay on chatting. About nothing. About everything. 

Eventually, Ikem rises and takes Kiyi (half-sleep under the table) off to bed. 

Not long after, Sokka follows. 

“We don’t have a spare room,” his mother says. “But the people we’d help escape would stay in the shed out back. We’ve made it as comfortable as we can. There are bedrolls in the closet.”

With Sokka’s departure, Zuko is left alone with his mother for the first time in years. 

He notices she doesn’t ask about Azula. He’s not ready to offer that information freely either. What could he say? Her hospital is more like a prison. It might be neat and clean and designed to help her, but she can’t leave. And he’s the one who put her there. 

He needs his mom for all these things. When he can, he needs to tell her about Azula. About Sokka. He doesn’t even need her advice on it all; he needs only her comfort. 

“Mom,” he says when the moon is high and the stars bright. “I can’t believe you’re coming back. There’s an apartment in the palace we can set up for you and—“

“Zuko.” She places her hand on his. Her features turn down in a frown. “Zuko… I’m not sure if that’s the best idea.”

“Mom, it’s okay. You have my full pardon—you all do.”

She hesitates. “I know, dear. I know. But that doesn’t mean we have the whole palace on our side. There are still plenty of old advisors who’d hate to see my face.”

Zuko feels his face fall. She’s right. He knows she is. But to come all this way and leave her here… 

“Let’s talk about it more in the morning, alright? I need to speak to Ikem too. My life here isn’t just mine.”

Zuko nods numbly. Between the travelling, the shock of actually finding his mother, and the late hour, he’s beat. Rung out. He could sleep for hours, he suspects.

When he joins Sokka in the shed, Sokka stirs lightly. “How’d it go?”

“I’ll find out in the morning.” Zuko spreads out his bedroll as close to Sokka as he can. The floor is fairly clean and the shed mostly holds equipment for the field. There’s a false wall, he notices. Discreet but there. Probably for the deserters to hide if anyone came.

“Hm,” Sokka says, half-asleep. He pulls the blanket around his shoulder and turns to face Zuko. “You’re a lot like her, you know.”

Zuko scoffs. “You don’t have to lie. I made my peace with the fact I’m the spitting image of my father long ago.”

“I’m not lying,” Sokka says quietly. There’s an edge of hurt in his voice. “You  _ are  _ like her. The way you talk. The way you smile. There’s more to a person than their face, you know.”

Zuko lies on the bedroll and laces his fingers behind his head. “I hope so.”

He really does. 

* * *

He wakes late the next day. 

And the next. And the day after that. 

In the end, they stay almost a full week. 

They talk about all the years they missed. They walk down to the sea and rest on the beach. Zuko helps his mother cook dinner while Sokka and Ikem set the table. In the evening, they stay up reading by candlelight. 

At night, Zuko lies next to Sokka, their hands tangled together, and listens to the wind rattle the shingles of the shed. 

This life is quiet and small. In another life, it could have been his. 

But he can’t bring himself to forget what’s waiting for him back home. He can only hope his family comes back, too. His mother. Kiyi. Ikem. They’re all his now. 

Sokka is too. 

Zuko can’t miss the stolen glances. 

Kiyi seems to think Sokka is here too— she trusts him before she trusts Zuko, even if she does come around in the end. They’re at the beach again on the third day of their visit when she yanks on Zuko’s sleeve. “I need to make a sand castle,” she says, “and Sokka’s no good at it.”

Zuko glances over at Sokka. His knees are covered in sticky sand and there’s a misshapen pile at his feet. Sokka shrugs.

Zuko bends down to help Kiyi. She works with stubborn dedication, but no intensity. Zuko’s glad for that. 

“Mom and Dad say you’re my brother,” she says after some time of silent work. 

Zuko’s never known how to talk to kids. He only nods slowly. “I am. You’re my sister.” He continues building the far wall of the sand castle. The sand here is a bit too rocky for it to be great, but it’s shaping up nicely despite the setbacks. 

She lets out a pouty humph. “My friend Sen got a new brother last year. She says she can’t sleep ‘cause he cries all night.”

Zuko pauses. “Have I cried all night?”

“No.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

Kiyi seems to accept that answer and his sand castle.

They spend the day there, at the beach. The waves lap at their toes. The wind whistles over the water. Kiyi dumps a bucket of wet sand all over Zuko’s back and splits into a fit of giggles. 

It’s strange to see Kiyi laughing, carefree and unbothered. In some ways, she looks slightly like Azula did at that age, but Zuko strains to even think the two could be connected. 

Here, Kiyi couldn’t have had an easy childhood. The constant fear the authorities would come must’ve hung over their shoulders. Zuko gleans that hunger, especially during the rainy months, must’ve been a fear just as looming and real. 

And in spite of it all, Kiyi is happy. She laughs. She pulls him and Sokka into a game with her dolls. 

In the palace, he and Azula did not want for anything. 

And yet they’d missed out on so much. 

* * *

“We’ll come back for a visit, first,” his mother says on the seventh day of their stay. “Two-weeks, at most. But we’re coming back here after. This is where our life is, Zuko.”

Zuko nods. He can’t help but feel the flush of hope when she says they’ll visit ‘firsts’; the implication of the second, perhaps permanent visit lingers in the air. 

But their lives are here. 

He knows that. 

* * *

He and Sokka leave the next morning. His family has some loose ends to tie up, but they’ll be on their way not long after. 

At the docks Kiyi cries and buries her face in Zuko’s shirt. She begs their mother and Ikem to let her go with Zuko and Sokka. 

“Not this time, my dear,” Ursa says. 

Zuko pats her head. “I need you to take care of Mom and your dad for me. Can you do that?”

Teary-eyes, she nods. 

“Good.” Zuko ruffles her hair. Kiyi doesn’t care if it sticks out. “We’ll see you again soon. I promise.”

When Zuko hugs his mother, he can’t help but feeling watery-eyed, too. 

“You’ve done so well, Zuko,” she whispers in his ear. “You’re a good man. And your life is full of people who love you.” She gives him a final squeeze before parting. 

And then she pulls Sokka into a hug too. 

Zuko thinks he hears her say ‘look out for him’, but her voice is muffled. He can’t be sure. 

* * *

The catamaran skips over the waves once more. Zuko nestles up to Sokka’s side as the sun streams down. 

“This is a win,” Sokka murmurs in his ear. “Take it.”

Zuko nods and reaches up to cup his face and steal a kiss, once again. “I know,” he says. The sea breeze runs through his hair. “I’m taking all the wins I can get.”

* * *

The next night, before they return to the capital, they stop at Taiyo Island—where they started their search. At the inn, they get a room with one bed. 

“Are we going to do this?” Zuko says as he presses himself into Sokka’s shape. 

“You’re the Fire Lord,” he responds quietly and strokes Zuko’s hair. “It’s your decision.”

“I want to be with you. I do. So badly. But the nation… they’re not ready. I only overturned the ban on this last year.” Zuko bites his lip, ready for Sokka to tell him to push more, to be braver. 

Instead, Sokka plants a kiss on his temple. “These things take time. I understand. Whatever way I can be with you, it’s enough.”

Zuko wishes he could say the same. 

But, selfishly, he wants all of Sokka. Anything less will never be enough. 

* * *

In the morning, as they pack, Zuko fishes the leather journal—the one he bought for Sokka the first time they were here—out of his bag. “This is for you,” he says and thrusts it at Sokka without ceremony.

“Zuko.” Sokka runs his finger along the binding. “You shouldn’t have. It’s too much.”

Zuko flushes. “If you think that’s too much, you shouldn’t have seduced the Fire Lord.”

“Seduced? Is that what I did?” he says with a laugh. 

“Yes. It just took a while.”

Sokka tosses his head back in laughter, deep and rolling. “Well, it’s a good thing the Fire Lord has more money than Lee.” 

Zuko cups his face. “And Sokka’s a much better ambassador than Wang could ever be.”

“Wait, ambassador? Are you serious?”

Zuko nods. “I mean, if you want. I’ve missed you. And I know that you have duties at home and everything, but your dad is still a good chief with many years ahead of him.” 

Sokka beams. “I couldn’t think of a better plan.”

* * *

When they finally reach the Fire Nation, they’ve been gone for over a month. Both of them have grown their hair and are sporting a healthy tan. 

Uncle greets them as they enter the palace as if nothing has changed. If he sees Zuko and Sokka standing too close, he doesn’t say.

When Uncle pulls Zuko into a great hug, Zuko whispers in his ear, “I found her, Uncle. I found her.”

Uncle clasps his hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “I never doubted that you would.”

When they part, Zuko thinks only of a hot bath to wash the grime away and Sokka waiting in his bed. 

“Oh, Nephew, one more thing: the Sun Warriors sent a belated birthday gift for you. He’s waiting in the arena.”

Zuko shoots Sokka a glance. “He?”

Sokka shrugs back. 

* * *

“A dragon,” Sokka says. “A  _ dragon. _ ”

“I know.” Zuko let’s the small, red thing climb around his arm. He’s hardly bigger than a hawk and nestles his head against Zuko’s neck. Zuko runs a finger down his scaly neck. 

Sokka comes up closer and pets it carefully. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know.” Zuko thinks a dragon needs a good name—something majestic. Awe-inspiring. 

“I like Druk.”

“Druk? No—“ Zuko starts, but it’s too late. The dragon is already nipping at Sokka’s long fingers and flapping his wings in joy. Great

Zuko sighs in defeat. “Nice to meet you, Druk. Welcome to our family.”

And when Sokka smiles at him, Zuko swears it’s brighter than the sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Chapter 6! One more to go! Chapter 7 is going to be more of an epilogue to bring us up to the events we know of in LoK.  
> Thanks for reading! It literally makes my day to see comments.


	7. Epilogue

A simple life would be too much to ask for. At times, Zuko’s wanted one. In the depths of night he has imagined what it would be like to live in a simple cottage instead of the palace, to wear rough cotton and linen clothes instead of the heavy robes and his fine silks. To move uninterrupted through the world. What would it be like to stroll down the street, hand in hand with Sokka, free from the prying gaze of onlookers? To dine in public without attendants and guards breathing down their necks? It seems unreal, now.

There was a time when Zuko could do that. In Ba Sing Se, with Uncle, no one paid them any mind. Zuko would clear away teacups with rings of cold and dried tea at the bottom and the patrons would keep chatting as if Zuko was simply another decoration in the shop. 

When he travelled with Sokka, looking for his mother, he had that peace too. Even though he was searching, always looking outwards, he had the peace of a normal life. Looking back, he should’ve enjoyed that more. He should’ve taken more afternoons at the rocky beaches and gone into more bakeries and grasped Sokka’s hand as they wandered through the streets. 

But Zuko’s too old for regrets. He knows that so many see it the other way around—that growing old is the perfect time to look back on life and curse all that could have been, or should have gone a different way. But the way Zuko sees it, he can’t change it now. Why would he waste time mulling over the past? He still has a future to turn his head towards. 

And besides, he wouldn’t change anything, given the chance. Not really. He would’ve savoured some moments more. Worried a little less. But he can’t bring himself to fret over the way his life went. 

He had time with Sokka. Nights together in the palace and days spent strolling through gardens. They were both busy (too busy), that much was true. Sometimes, they’d spend a week together only to be separated for months again. Sokka was busy with Republic City; Zuko had a nation to run. But they’d always find their way back together, in the end. It didn’t matter if it was his gilded chambers at the palace, or a suite in the grand hotels of the City, or an icy dwelling at the edge of the South. They made it work, as they always did. 

Zuko sighs and pulls himself away from his thoughts. He could get lost like this, just living in the past. Before he has much time to turn back to the report he’s supposed to be finishing, a sharp rap sounds on the study door.

Sokka enters without waiting. His face is grim; more lines than normal are wrought into his forehead. “I’ve just had news from Republic City. From Tenzin.”

Zuko stills. He’d seen that face before. The news that followed couldn’t be good. “What’s wrong?”

“He got intel that there’s a group out there—calling themselves the Red Lotus—and they’re planning some sort of attack on Korra’s home.” 

“The threat is real?”

Sokka nods sternly. “Very.”

Zuko stands and steadies himself. “We’ll leave before dawn. If you send word to Tenzin, I can start packing.”

Again, Sokka nods. Zuko knows this look well--he must be creating a dozen plans in his head, all at once. 

“Hey,” Zuko says. He steps forward and pulls Sokka in close. “We’ll get through this. We always do.”

Sokka exhales slowly. Some of the tension in his muscles seems to slip out with his breath. “I know.” He rubs n a circle on Zuko’s back. “We couldn’t have some rest, could we?” he asks with a hint of a laugh. 

Zuko hums in agreement. “I don’t think a quiet life was ever in the cards for us.”

And, for the first time, it strikes Zuko that he isn’t sure he’d want one to be. 

If his life was simple, if he hadn’t been through hell and back, then he wouldn’t be here, now, wrapped in Sokka’s embrace, smelling the soap on his skin, and trying to steady his heart before they dive back into the pit of danger. 

How could he ask for anything different?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! All of your comments have been so so wonderful to read ❤️ 
> 
> If you’re interested, I can be found on tumblr @snailwriter


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